The Misfortunes of the Chronically Odd
by DivoTsvetche
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is what one would call incurably cynical and simply hopeless. But when a disgustingly rich Parisian strolls – nay, jumps, with all the destructive force of a German bomber plane, – into his life, everything turns around. Now, he's cynical, hopeless, and irritated. Full summary and warnings inside. Human-AU.
1. Trudge

**Full Summary - **Arthur Fitzwilliam Kirkland was an average man; cynical, unfriendly, and poor as dirt, perhaps, but still your everyday blue-collar worker. He works two jobs and has two loves in his life: books and music. Arthur may not have it all but he's happy as it is: everything is set how he likes it, and he doesn't want that to change.

However, Fate is of different intentions when her winds blow Francis Bonnefoy over from the other side of the Channel. Brilliant. Because Arthur could use another problem in his life; a problem in the form of an overpaid, arrogant lawyer whose sole purpose in life seems to revolve around money, drink, and sex.

**Warnings: **Language, alcoholism, drug abuse, language, violence, a small bit of sex, and _language. _

_Enjoy!  
_

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**Chapter 1 - Trudge**

Music pounded through the small room, the air rich with sound, sweat, and alcohol. A constricted mass of people swayed to the violent beats that were being thrown at them, creating a rhythmic vibration that rocked the stage's worn floorboards. Arthur smiled inwardly as he felt it, blaring out the song lyrics with a renewed energy. He was warm, his clothes were dirty, and his hair was sticking to his face, but the pure hate and condescension coming from all the youth below the stage was radiating off them, feeding the angry song that shook the club.

_Anarchy?_

He spat out the word, grimacing at the few cheers its simple uttering provoked. Most of the kids at the club knew very well his opinion of the stereotypical anarchist punk.

_Hell no!_

Good-for nothing, uneducated, and just going with the flow. Rubbish. Nonsense. Those kids were even worse than the elitist snobs they were supposedly rebelling against.

_I just hate the status quo!_

_Painting me, _

_Into,_

_The symbol of bigotry._

All those little brats were actually why the punks were considered low-class, violent, narrow-minded, and all the other lovely things that were attributed to them.

_Well then, I guess I can just say..._

_Fuck you!_

That's right. Fuck them and their rich arses wanting to look 'cool' by rebelling. Yeah, the system wasn't perfect, but Arthur was damned if he was going to let the new 'punks' ruin the reputation of those who were actually opposing the system for reasons other than drink, drugs, and social calibre.

As the song ended with a violent brush of the guitar strings, a chorus of praise and claps rose, making the room shake even more with the unbroken noise.

Running a hand through his wet hair, Arthur smiled to his audience, and waved.

"Thank you! Bloody hell, just... Just thank you! Glad you liked it!"

Leaving the rest of his band-mates to clamour in the fan's adoration, Arthur slipped out, nodding a quick goodbye to his bassist, and entering the relatively quiet backstage room. It was a box-like compartment, meant only for quick makeup retouches, and outfitted with a chair and mirror. Still panting from the singing, the blond simply sat down and stared at his reflection.

His hair was a shade darker, glistening with sweat that occasionally rolled down his forehead. His cheeks were a rosy hue, his brilliant green eyes half-lidded, and his chapped lips slightly opened to let in large intakes of breath. Carefully, he ran a finger over the many piercings he had acquired throughout the years: three ring helixes, an anti-eyebrow, and a lip ring were on the left side of his face, while his right was adorned with a labret, two eyebrows, an ear cuff, a cross earring, and a nose piercing.

He gave a small smile.

If his parents were to see him now, oh, the things they'd say... probably something along the lines of him being an absolute disgrace to the family, a failure at life in general, etcetera, etcetera.

And, to be perfectly honest, he'd have to agree with them.

Anyone who threw away the chances he had been offered deserved to be called a disappointment.

However, Arthur's small self-pity party was quickly ended as a pair of icy hands slapped over his eyes, making the small man jump and flail his arms around.

"Guess who, prinzessin!" The familiar scratched voice made him stop in mid-motion.

Oh.

Of course.

The blond casually regained composure. "Gilbert. Remember that one time when I told you I'd cut your hands off if you did that again?"

"Ja?"

"I wasn't joking."

The albino cackled and let go of his band-mate, instead choosing to quickly pat down his flying hair. "Sure you were, Art! If you really did that, who'd be awesome enough to play bass for your band?"

"That's right," Arthur smiled drily, "you're the only bassist who'll take such cheap pay."

"Hey, hey! Music's music, lieb, and if I gotta work with some deadbeat with a Napoleon complex and his awesome beer buddy to be able to play what I want, then so be it."

"Gee, Gilbert, thanks. Really feeling the respect for the band here."

"Well of course I respect it! I'm in it, aren't I?" He chuckled, swinging his arms up to stretch his back. "But ya know, it's a good gig you got us here, Art."

"_Arthur_." The other corrected. "And I know, the guy here pays well enough."

"Ja, it almost makes up for the gas the van eats."

"You mean the piece of junk you bought off of that old lady?"

The German walked over to Arthur and plopped down on his knees to face him. "Dude. Don't insult my beautiful van! It carries all your shit; it's practically part of the band!"

"Oh yeah, I forgot you had an odd love for the thing. Have you named our 'band-mate' yet?"

Gilbert looked thoughtful. "Well, I was thinking, since I'm awesome and all, about calling it 'Mein Kampfervan'." He smiled and waited.

"Really?" The blond deadpanned. "Really, Gilbert?"

"Oh, c'mon, man! Don't leave me hanging! Say it!"

"No."

"Come on!"

"I refuse to."

"Be cool for once!"

The Englishman rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine, fine. 'I did Nazi that coming'. Happy?"

The albino laughed and quickly ran his hand through the singer's already ruffled hair. "Very!"

"God damn it, Gilbert! Stop that!" The smaller man shrieked as he tried to get the German off of him, with little success. However, in the midst of his effort, he suddenly hunched over, coughing violently. It wasn't until a good minute after that he stopped, short of breath and panting heavily.

"Birdie...?" Arthur looked up to see two concerned red eyes looking at him.

"It's nothing. And the name's Arthur." The blond grunted, voice still hoarse.

Gilbert took his face and frowned. "Listen, _Birdie_, I know we've already discussed this, but can you get the fuck over your pride and let me help you? We can share my flat, and you'd have some food, and—"

At that moment, the door of the room was thrown open, and Mathias, an ever-excited Dane, walked in, booming. "This job was _amazing_! The chicks here are so into drummers, they were all ove—am I interrupting something here? Because hey, if you're about to get all naughty in that chair, I'll just take my coat and leave." He winked.

Blushing, Arthur stood, leaving the German to fall on the floor with a loud _thump_, and got his own jacket. "No, this is just part of Gil's goodbye ritual, you've obviously never had the pleasure of experiencing it. In any case, I'm off. Put my guitar in the van, I don't feel like carrying it home." He turned and got to the door, before turning back for a second. "Oh, and Gilbert? I'll be fine. But thanks."

And with that, he went out, leaving one slightly confused Dane, and one fuming German behind.

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_Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! :) Bit of a short chapter, but it'll lengthen out as the story moves one. And sorry for the tastelessness of Gilbert's joke; I've always imagined him to be the type of guy who'd make a lame pun and then laugh at it by himself. _

_Next chapter, we meet Francis, our loveable socialite. Once again, I hope you enjoyed reading this, and please leave me a note telling me what you thought of it, I'd love seeing your opinions ^_^ Thanks again!_


	2. Bureau

_Now for the introduction of the aforementioned arrogant lawyer! :) Quick specification: _

_"asdfghjk" - person speaking on the other end of the telephone_

_'asdfghjk' - thoughts of character_

_And lastly, thank you to those that followed, favourited, and reviewed; it means a lot to me! :D_

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 2 – Bureau**

"Et nous trouvons l'accusé innocent du traffic d'héroine et innocent de toute participation, directe ou indirecte, au traffic d'héroine."

Francis held a taught smile. His victory was predetermined; he never lost.

As he stood and shook his client's hand, he could feel the very familiar sting of guilt build at the back of his mind. But, like he had done many times, he dismissed it and thought no more of it until he had gotten outside the Palais de Justice, and was casually leaning against a cold stone lion.

_It's a shame, really, _he thought as he lit a cigarette, _that my client was one of the main heroin _and _cocaine traffickers of Paris. Still, he paid well..._

Eyes closed, the Frenchman let out a long, satisfying cloud of smoke, and then started walking back to his home, which was roughly a fifteen minute walk. He strolled languidly down the Quai du Marché Neuf, the chill breeze from the Seine cooling him down, as opposed to the slight burn that he felt from the lazy afternoon sun when he passed the famous Cathédrale de Notre Dame. The blond hummed happily as he greeted cheerful people that came his way, before finally reaching his apartment on the Île-Saint-Louis.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by an offensively decadent home filled with Persian rugs, antique furniture, and the odd artefact here and there that he had bought at auctions. Really, Francis Bonnefoy had it made.

And it wasn't because he only took the most elite high-paying cases, thank you very much.

Francis liked to think that it was his uncanny ability to get high-paying scum out of the justice system's hair.

He gave a small snort as he headed to his bathroom and stripped; it's not that he was a frigid and rather emotionless criminal prosecutor who only cared for his profit (although admittedly, he didn't _mind _the ridiculously large sums of money he got), he reasoned with himself. He simply found he couldn't care about distributing so-called justice like he had in his younger days. After all, business was business, and Francis had turned that phrase into a prayer, one that he repeated in his mind over and over again, through every hour of every day.

He slowly stepped into his shower and let steaming hot water run over his aching back and chest. _'Gee, and I thought spending hours hunched over some salaud's case would do wonders for my health' _he thought acidly.

As much as Francis hated to admit it, his work did have some costs. For one, he could enjoy neither a restful moment nor a clear conscience for more than a few seconds a day; and secondly, his whole body _fucking hurt._ His doctor had amiably told him that it was stress causing it, and that he should take a vacation. It had taken all of a very irritated and sore Francis' will power not to slap some sense into the poor old man. _He _was _Francis-Bloody-Bonnefoy_. He had work to do; he could not simply saunter off to some sunny, warm, isolated, colourful, lazy, tropical _paradise_...

Fine, the idea _did _appeal to him, _a bit_. Just a tiny, microscopic, enormous bit.

He could picture it now: a private beach of soft white sand, licked occasionally by a sun-warmed turquoise sea. A small vacation home under the palm trees, whose leaves would be rustled by a salty breeze. Only the sound of birds, wind, and a repeated shrill buzzing—

'_Wait...what?'_

Francis' eyes snapped open as he realised that his phone was ringing. Turning off the tap, he ran, naked and dripping water everywhere, to answer the intruding call.

"Bonjour, Francis Bonnefoy sure la ligne." He panted, trying to collect himself.

"_Francis! Mi amigo! Hola!_" A melodic, cheerful , and ear-piercingly _loud _voice came from the other end.

"A-Antonia? Is that you?" '_Well, of course it's her, genius'_, Francis thought, '_Who else do I know that is so disrespectful of my ear drums?'_

"_Yes! How's it going? We haven't spoken in so much time!_" One could practically _hear _her grin.

"Mon dieu, Antonia, it's been far too long, how are things on your end of the Channel?"Francis sighed and smiled, running a hand through his wet hair.

"_I've been fine, __ñaño, everything's been going wonderfully! But tell me, how have you been?"_

"Great, chère, great. Business has been going well, as usual." The blond stuck the cordless phone between his ear and shoulder before getting a cotton robe from his linen closet and slipping it on.

"_No, no, not business! How are you, _you_, Francis ? Oh dios, querido, why is it always work with you? You know at some point, all this exertion is going to get to catch up with you! You'll get sick! Ay, and what will Jeanne think of me after I promised to keep you healthy!_" The Spanish woman started scolding, and the poor subject of her mothering couldn't resist but let out a quiet laugh, interrupting her.

"Have you noticed, dear Antonia, that you tend to speak not in sentences but rather exclamations?" He teased.

"_Ay, Francis..._" She sighed, before continuing with a calmer voice. "_But I am serious. You're overworking yourself; I asked your secretary how many cases you were taking on, and I was horrified. I know I am not your mama, ñaño, and I shouldn't be checking up on you, but this is just ridiculous! I can't reach your phone; your voicemail box is always full... You can't keep going so hard." _She ended on a tired note, tearing at Francis' heart.

"What are you getting at, chère?" Francis murmured, feeling like a guilty child when faced with his (_younger, but smolderingly caring_) friend's concerns.

After a short silence, Antonia's voice restarted, this time chipper. "_Well, since you've worked so hard, I was thinking you should take a vacation! And you've been promising that you'll visit me for months, so I thought you could come and stay with Lovi and me for a few weeks!_"

"What... you mean in London?"

"_Si!_"

He groaned. "Antonia...It's not that simple; I work, I can't just pick up and leave, ther—"

"_Francis! Por favor! Do it for me, please! And...anyways..._" Her voice quieted, but was quivering with nervous excitement, "_there's something very important that I want to tell you about!_"

"...Can't you tell me now?"

"_No, not yet! Come on, mi compañero, mi compinche, mi mejor amigo en el mundo entero!_" The woman pleaded, and Francis could immediately picture her, hands clenched together and lips stuck in the most adorable pout, one that rivalled even that of a small toddler (which in Francis' opinion was a talent that his friend should have exploited, and quite fructuously at that).

"Fine, fine, vile temptress." He chuckled, "I know that I cannot deny you anything. I'll see what I can work out. Contente?"

"_Haha, yes! Get over here any time, but make it soon, you hear?_" Her laugh sounded through the phone, and drew an even bigger smile from the lawyer. "_Anyways, Lovi and I are going out. Call me when you've figured your schedule out, right? __Adios!_"

"Oui, oui, Antonia, I'll tell you. Au revoir, ma chère." He hung up and instantly gave a deep breath as he leaned against a wall and rubbed his temples.

'_Well...It's not exactly a tropical paradise..._'

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_Thank you for reading! :D I'll be honest, though, when I admit that this chapter wasn't exactly as good as I'd hoped it would be. I should get longer and more detailed chapters by the next update, though, (which should be weekly) so I hope you stick around! ^_^_

**Translations:**

_**French:**_

[1] et nous trouvons l'accusé innocent du traffic d'héroine et innocent de toute participation, directe ou indirecte, au traffic d'héroine - _And we find the accused innocent of heroin trafficking, and innocent of all participation, direct or indirect, in heroine trafficking_

[2] salaud - _bastard _

[3] bonjour, Francis Bonnefoy sure la ligne - _Hello, Francis Bonnefoy on the line_

[4] chère - _Dear (feminine)_

[5] au revoir - _Goodbye_

_**Spanish:**_

[1] mi amigo -_ My friend_

[2] hola - _Hello_

[3] ñaño - _Chum (in an elder brother kind of way, I believe)_

[4] querido - _Dear (masculine)_

[5] si - _Yes_

[6] por favor - _Please_

[7] mi compañero, mi compinche, mi mejor amigo en el mundo entero - _My buddy, my pal, by best friend in the whole wide world_

[8] adios - _Goodbye_

_Also, if you didn't notice, Spanish isn't my first language, and I Google Translated the hell out of the Spanish phrases, so if anyone sees any errors, please tell me so that I can fix it ^_^_

_Thanks again for reading! :)_


	3. The Oh-So Wonderful Day of--

_Hey again, Internet-people! Sorry for the lateness, I had a lot of schoolwork to do ;_; IB: It's so much work, but holy crap it is so worth it. I swear, its English program is solely about sexual deviancy. I kid you not._

_In any case, I want to start off with a big big thank you to anyone who reviewed, favourited, alerted, and followed :) It means a lot to me, and I'm glad some people liked it._

_Now on to the story!  
_

_Enjoy~_

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**Chapter 3 - The Oh-So Wonderful Day of an Oh-So Grumpy Man**

"Ah, fuck!" A voice echoed throughout the whole of the old building.

The sound came from the north-west staircase, on the second floor, where Arthur Kirkland was holding on for dear life on the uncomfortably sticky handrail. Beneath him, the stairs that were _supposed _to be holding his weight had given out, and he now had his foot stuck in between some very sharp-looking floorboards. The Briton smirked drily. '_If I can't count on the stairs to keep me from falling into the abyss, then what in the world can I count on?_' Still, he carefully slid his leg up, managing to get away with only a few shallow scratches, and continued his half-jog up the rickety staircase, watchful to always gravitate his hand near the rail.

Out of breath and positively drained, he finally reached his flat, #72 on the fourth floor, and unlocked the door, which, to match his walls, was painted a most charming shade of 'peeling indeterminate beige-ish'. He quickly slid down the length of the first narrow corridor on his right, and passed through his bedroom to enter his luxurious _stark bright, burn-your-bloody-eyes-out, electric blue_ bathroom. As he undid his pants, he chuckled when remembered first moving in the flat: he had been told beforehand that the then-brown washroom would be repainted into something more jovial.

'_Well, nothing says cheery like the colour of the sky on LSD._'

When he was done, he washed his hands and headed over to his living space, plopping down on a yellow and pink paisley futon and lifting his boots up on his coffee table. Out of his coat pocket, he drew a lukewarm beer, compliments of a particularly eager fan, and popped it open, giving a satisfied moan once he had taken the first sip. After he had sung that night, his throat was incredibly hoarse, and the coughing fits he'd been having lately weren't helping at all. True, Arthur admitted, beer didn't help that much either, but it had been a choice between that and tap water, and he didn't really trust the cleanliness of his plumbing system.

With a sigh, the Englishman simply stared out of the dirty glass doors which opened to his balcony. Right in front of him was the iconic egg building, shining brightly with the other glass skyscrapers. He could have been there, amongst the well-paid, well-fed, and well-educated, sipping on fine wines and dining with fine people. He wouldn't have to scrape money from his penny-jar to make rent every month; he wouldn't be forced to work two jobs, day and night, just to keep himself from starvation; he wouldn't have to spend his evenings sipping dry ale on an old couch he had hauled off the streets, serenaded by the ambient sounds of leaking, creaking, and the occasional faraway clash of domestic violence.

Not that Arthur was bitter about it.

'_I have no god-damned right to be bitter about anything.' _He frowned as he walked to the adjacent kitchen to put his beer in the fridge. '_I chose this, and I have no place complaining about it.'_

He yawned as he walked back to his bedroom, where he took off his clothes and put a plain white sleeveless shirt over top his boxers. Then, after brushing his teeth and washing his face, he may have been broke, but he'd be damned if he didn't keep up his hygiene, he set the alarm clock and slipped into his cold bed.

'_All I can really do is try to sort my mess out as quickly as possible..._' He thought, before curling up and drifting into sleep.

* * *

Beep, beep, beep.

'_One more minute...'_

Beep, beep, beep.

'_Just a few seconds. Relax. You can sleep through this. Ignore the sound. It's not even there.'_

Beep, beep, beep!

'_Oh god that clock...Can it not see I'll be getting up in five seconds? Of course it can't, 'cause it's an idiotic piece of shit alarm clock!'_

Beep! Beep! Beep!

"Dear mother of god, shut the bloody fuck UP!" Arthur yelled and hurled his pillow at his clock, narrowly missing it and instead hitting his standing lamp.

Groaning, he languidly got up before violently slamming a hand down on the pestering object, effectively stopping the ringing. He quietly shuffled over to his bathroom, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force.

Let it be said that Arthur Fitzwilliam Kirkland was not a morning person.

Especially when his 'morning' began at _five fucking ante meridiem._

The sky was still dark, for Christ's sake. No, this was definitely _not _morning in Arthur's book.

Still, work was work, and unless he wanted to lose the only day job he could get without needing a car or public transport, he had to get moving. Stripping and hopping in the bathtub, he turned the tap and hissed at the much-too-warm water that hit him. It evened out after a few seconds, though, and he made quick work of washing up, knowing full well that a nice long shower, one that he had been craving to have for close to four months, would no doubt leak on his downstairs neighbour's ceiling, and as much of an arsehole as he may be at times, Arthur would never dream of making the poor old widow's life harder than it already was.

After a rushed fifteen minutes, he stopped the shower and went out, drying himself as he walked over to his dresser, where he pulled out his uniform; a pair of beige slacks and a red blouse. He glanced at his abused old Ikea clock, and his eyes widened.

5:30

_Well shit._

With a renewed panic-fuelled speed, he ran back to the washroom and brushed his teeth and hair before grabbing his backpack, wallet, and an old sack of biscuits from his kitchen counter and running out. He flew down the stairs, mindful of that one troublesome hole, and went out the door. Thankfully, the diner where he worked, a charming little place owned by an old Turkish woman, was but a good twenty minute's walk away from his complex. Not that his boss would mind him being late; she was the sweetest thing, always keeping a permanent smile on her lips. Rather, it would be her grandson, who was a complete and utter _git,_ who would love firing him. Sadiq Adnan was one of those people that seemed to enjoy tormenting others for no particular reason other than to boost what Arthur suspected was a miserable confidence stemming from his insecurities about both his sexuality and his boyfriend, which they themselves were brought on by the constant badgering of his homophobic father who insisted that his only son get married to a rich woman.

...Not that Arthur had thought much about it.

But, displacement issues or not, the Briton still hated Sadiq's worthless guts. And it was just his luck that the first sight he would see when he swung open the door of the diner would be _his _fiendishly smiling face.

"Why, Arthur! How good of you to grace us with your presence!" He started, following the smaller man as he went to the back to deposit his things.

"Sod off, I'm in no mood." The blonde snapped, heading over to get a serving apron and notepad.

"Oh, dear, your words are so sweet." He gushed, skipping lightly next to his co-worker.

"Do you have a hearing problem, Adnan? I said sod off."

"Please, Artie-darling, stop. You're making me blush." The Turk cooed mockingly, batting his eyelashes and faking a loving kissy-face.

Irritated, the Briton growled and suddenly grabbed the tan man by the neck, pulling himself up to his height and planting a rough kiss on his lips. "Damn right I make you blush." He scoffed before going back to his usual business.

Sadiq, albeit struck for a good moment, shook off his shock and ran after the Englishman. "Ya know, I could file for sexual harassment on the base that _you_ just kissed me without consent!"

"And _I _could file for workplace abuse on the base that you're a fucking arsehole." Arthur muttered to himself, before going to the dining area to greet the few early birds that were there.

As much as the blond hated to admit it, that blooming idiot was his boss' grandson, and although their usual tomfoolery didn't get him in too much trouble, especially seeing as while Sadiq had more authority, Arthur held the secret of he and his boyfriend Heracles' relationship, he still couldn't go too far with their antics. The kiss, he supposed, was stretching the boundaries a bit...but he could count on the Turk not reporting it; if he did, his father would have both their heads. And they both valued those (although Arthur liked to think that he did so a little more than his co-worker).

Despite that, the Brit was not surprised that he had been able to keep his post for a steady two years. 'Punctual', 'hardworking', and 'willing to do anything to earn a salary spot on the line of minimum wage' were qualities that any employer would admire, and that he proudly possessed.

Plus, Arthur's job was simple: take the customer's order, write it down, give it to the cook, and repeat. Easy.

He was banned from the kitchen, and, although that direction was slightly offensive (he _could _cook, damn it!) it certainly made him enjoy the straightforwardness of shitty jobs. The only downside of being a waiter at a diner was the constant exposure to warm, home cooked, healthy food. Food that, while required by his body for trivial things such as a fit body, moving, thinking, and living, was unavailable to him.

Unfortunately, his poor salary – most of which was versed in his rent and taxes – made his meals consist of whatever canned or dried goods he could get.

Though, the Briton couldn't complain. It was _something_, and in any case, he had started developing a palette for all things flavourless and fatty.

Still, his poor diet had made his broad shoulders and jaw look too big on him, and his eyes were always half-lidded over purple bags.

Arthur was definitely not the man he had been...

But, as he reminded himself constantly, it had been _his _fault, and it was _his _mess to fix. The man was the literal expression of "splendid isolation", with clear refusal to accept any help from anyone. That attitude, Arthur figured, probably wasn't healthy, but his numerous days spent in solitude had allowed him to hammer the idea into his head.

'_Nothing like a bit of unstoppable self-deprecation during every waking moment to motivate the living hell out of oneself!_'

And, for the next six hours, yelling mentally at himself was all Arthur _could _do, save for taking orders and silently laughing at some of the customers (because honestly, who wouldn't laugh at the poor American tourists that had inadvertently stumbled into the place and had sat weary-eyed the whole time with no idea where they were?). However, at the blissful ringing of the noon hour, Arthur could run out through the back door for a good thirty minutes and let his other co-worker (a particularly pretty sister of Sadiq's with a knack for flirting and a row of fearsome suitors) take over for him.

Taking his bag with him outside, he sat on the cement stairs at the dusty side of the building and pulled out the biscuits he had taken that morning. For a good fifteen seconds, he had the moan-inducing pleasure of sitting _alone, _and _quietly _munching on what tasted like drywall in_peace_.

However, like all good things, that moment ended much too quickly, and he soon heard a familiar body flop down beside him.

"Hey Artie, how's your day?" Sadiq cackled, drawing a pack of cigarettes out of his pants and lighting one up. "Gotta say you really brightened up mine with your little 'good morning' kiss!"

The blonde sighed. "I'm as happy as anyone being interrupted by an incoherent idiot with an IQ bordering on mental vegetation could be."

"Well aren't we a lil' dictionary with our big words?" The Turk patted his co-worker's back, albeit a bit too harshly for the gesture to have been friendly. With only a reply of silence, he tossed away the cheery attitude and shoved something in Arthur's lap. "Here, nine told me to give you this..." With that, he rose and started walking away.

Hurriedly, Arthur unwrapped the paper-covered package and found a still-steaming sandwich. Surprised, he looked up to Sadiq's retreating figure and yelled out a 'thank you'. The dark man turned around quickly and flashed a sincere smile. "Hey, you were lookin' like a skeleton; we had to feed ya something." The Briton was about to thank him again when the other continued. "I mean, if ya died on us, who else would we use for slave labour?"

The blonde immediately shut his mouth in a tight line and looked away from the brunette before smirking to himself and starting on his new lunch.

And _holy shit did it taste good!_

Arthur imagined he looked quite odd, rabidly devouring a mere sandwich between strangled moans of "mm, yes!" and "dear almighty god that hit the _spot_!" But hey, these were the first fresh ingredients he had had in a long while, and he didn't much care if he sounded like he was having sexual relations with a piece of bread. It wouldn't have been the worst thing he'd have shagged, anyways.

Rather quickly, he finished the sandwich, and then went back in the diner, where he monotonously continued his work. The rest of his day was usual; annoying, vaguely depressing, boorish perhaps, but then again, that was what his usual _was_.

Yet after five boring hours, twenty six boring minutes, and eight bloody boring seconds (not that Arthur had counted),he was released, and the Briton casually walked back to his apartment, where he dumped his bag and uniform in his bedroom and started rummaging through his kitchen in search of a meal.

'_Let's see here...Beer; no, definitely not supper. Cereal? Ugh, no, it's bloody stale and I'm out of milk. Maybe an apple? Yeah...It'd work if I actually had one._'

Finally, he grudgingly settled on the hardened Cheerio's, downed with beer (because that counted as a milk substitute, right?), both of which he chose to consume on his balcony, if not for the sake of getting fresh air (which in London was an entity practically non-existent), then for company. True to expectations, he indeed found his next-door neighbour also on the terrace beside his.

Elliot Anderly, a man of no particular trade or intellect, lead his life neither for the idealist's joie de vivre, nor for the common man's sense of survival. No, to him, the makeup of his existence revolved around football (the good, European type, mind you). The thirty-two year old watched the sport endlessly; every evening, seven to ten, rerun or new, regardless of teams. But every so often, he would venture out before his game and chat up whoever was available. Usually, it was Arthur, and although the small man sometimes found his neighbour's incessant rambling about the sport annoying, today he found it a blessing; he had a hankering for noise. Nothing particular in mind; just some _sound._

"Evening, Kirkland, my boy!" The older man yelled out.

"Hello, Eli. How do you do?"Arthur answered, smiling slightly.

"Fine, lad, you?"

"I'm well. What job are you working this week?"

"Well, they needed a worker ta fix a road, help fill in a pothole or whatever. So I get to do that fer a couple 'a days. And you?" Eli grinned, his words meshed and rolled, lively like those of a younger man.

"Still the same."

"Eh, lad, there's gonna be somethin' turnin' up some day for yeh." The older man's features softened, before he started afresh. "But while yer still here and stuck in the same old, why don't yeh come over an' watch some football with me? Manchester United're playin' tonight!"

The younger one made a face as he swallowed his last spoonful. "If it's the same old, then I'd have work in a good half hour or so." He took a swig of his ale. "Plus, I'm honestly more of a rugby fan, y'know?"

Eli laughed, and started getting back inside his own flat. "Eh, yeh young ones, all yeh wanna see is pushin' an' shovin'! Ya don't understand the finesse of football like we older gents do!"

"And where, pray tell, is the finesse in a couple of sweaty men kicking a ball?" Arthur yelled out, a deep chuckle starting at the back of his throat.

All he got as an answer was a faraway "Ach!" as the hermit closed himself back in for the night. '_Well, that certainly put me into a good mood. Who knows, maybe I'll have a nice evening? Minus the drunks and sexual harassment, bars are just lovely places!' _Arthur thought humouredly, going back inside to toss his bowl in the sink and get his leather jacket before heading over to his night job.

Each evening, he worked, eight to one, at Frej, a pub (thankfully) owned by Mathias' family. There, he was the bartender, and although he liked to imagine that he was amazing at mixing drinks, it was rather his tight friendship with the Dane that had gotten him the job. The pub was a bit farther away than the diner, and in the other direction, leading to the very heart of London.

Blazes of neon pink, yellow, and blue light flashed in every direction, streets lively with the few people that had already started their Saturday bar-crawl. When he walked through the door, he was met with the familiar tune of a guitar being played somewhere behind all the cigarette smoke that wafted through the room. Honestly, with the combined harm of his own smoking habit _and _the veritable inferno of the pub, Arthur was surprised he hadn't developed lung cancer yet.

'_Maybe that's my holy gift in life: tenacious lungs. How incredibly blessed I am._'

He hung up his coat and set himself behind the bar, slipping on a dirty white apron. Immediately, he was approached by the only serving girl in the joint; although, she was hardly a girl anymore at the ripe age of forty one. A single mum, living in destitution, and working three jobs, Patricia was still the cheeriest person Arthur ever knew. Having come from Dublin to find happiness, the red-head had instead found a disastrous one night stand and a dreary future. And yet the only time the Englishman had heard her complain about her life was when she had forgotten her umbrella during one of the Isle's many rainy days.

"Well, if it isn't my little caterpillar? How're you doin', darling?" She laughed, resting for a second on a bar stool.

"I'm well, Pat. How's Cathie?" Arthur smiled and started wiping beer glasses.

"She's okay. Says she's been havin' some trouble at school; the boys're teasin' her about her lazy eye, ya know."

"How is she handling it?"

"Fine! Now she tells me she's makin' fun of the boys' black eyes!" The woman laughed, not noticing the paling Englishman. Catherina, her daughter, was a mite more rambunctious than Arthur remembered women to be. Plus, he felt a certain pain for the boys that had taunted her; being beaten up by a girl was humiliating, even if you _did _deserve it. Lord knows _he_ would have never lived it down had it happened to him.

The man gulped. "Charming."

"Yeh, she'll grow up to be a real strong girl, I'll tell you that!" Pat smiled fondly, before going over to a group of youth that were calling her over.

Arthur continued his work in silence, serving the patrons (who seemed to grow in number exponentially as a function of time) but hardly engaging in discussions with them. Not only were belligerent drunks not the greatest conversationalist, but Arthur too was at fault; he had that stony inapproachability that was characteristic of those well-bred English gentlemen of higher classes. And although his social status had changed slightly ever since he had left home, the attitude still lingered.

As people kept pouring in the pub, the air thickened, the alcohol flowed, and the music got louder and _louder_. By 9:30, the customers had started singing along with the guitarist about their low-paying jobs, or their bickering wives.

Arthur felt as if he was in a fucking Disney musical.

Which, he supposed, was fine...if you were drinking. Unfortunately, _he _had to remain fully sober for the whole show, and by the second hour of mass chorus, he was getting a headache.

Looking around for something entertaining to watch, the Englishman suddenly spotted someone who seemed to be having as little fun as he. Sitting sullenly on a barstool was a good-looking blonde man who was nursing an almost empty wine glass. His eyes were tired and shut, and he sported a small snarl, wincing every time anyone started singing again. Walking over to the man, Arthur leaned on the bar and cleared his throat.

"Hullo. May I get you another drink? You seem to be out."

The stranger looked up, startled, before replying_. _"Where is the other bartender...?" He asked, an unmistakeably _French _accent lining his every word.

"She's off. I'm afraid you'll have to be satisfied with me for the night."

The Frenchman paused before giving Arthur a sloppy smile and flirtatious wink. "Pas de problème avec ça, chéri."

All he got in return was a blank stare. "Frenchmen." The Englishman snorted, as if that one word explained every single one of the stranger's character flaws. "Look, can I get you some alcohol? To drink? That's what you came for, right?"

"I'll take another glass of the Merlot behind you...but only if you'll drink it with me." The other man grinned wolfishly, once again attempting to flirt.

Without response, the shorter blond reached for the bottle and poured the mysterious patron some more wine, before stalking away without another word to serve somebody else.

'_Typical drunk. But I suppose I can't be mad at him; I'd be a hypocrite. God knows I've tried bedding someone while drinking...albeit a bit more successfully than he._' He chuckled to himself as he mocked the foreigner. '_Honestly, why would a frog come to Britain? And what was that ridiculous stubble thing on his chin? Has he no concept of a razor? The man looked bloody homeless._'

Yet...aside from the other man's nationality and ridiculous facial hair, he _had _intrigued him.

Point one, he was _incredibly attractive_. Point two, it wasn't every day Arthur met someone as surly and grumpy-looking as himself. And point three, he was _bored_, and once he got past his world-famous awkwardness, the Briton was sure he could have a fun conversation with the foreigner...

Well, as fun as a conversation with an inebriated man could be.

Curious, he looked back to where the Frenchman had sat, finding only an empty wine glass and a few bills.

Odd.

'_Too bad. He seemed interesting._' And with that Arthur brushed the encounter off. '_After all, it's just a random stranger._'

* * *

_Holy heart failure, Batman! An update longer than 3 pages? Whaaat? _

_So, I hope you enjoyed that; I had the grandest time writing it :D _

_Also, Sadiq made Arthur a sammich. Clearly, he is the bitch in this/any relationship. _

**Translations:**

_**Turkish:**_

[1] nine - _grannie/grandma/nana _

_**French:**_

[1] pas de problème avec ça, chéri - _No problem with that, darling (meant as 'I have no problem with that [being satisfied with you for the night], darling')_

_Again, there is a language barrier: I do not speak a word of Turkish. Except Bulgarian words that come from Turkish. But that hardly counts. Therefore, I invite a speaker of the language to correct my mistake if there is one :)_

_Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it ^_^_


	4. Perdre

_Hullo!_

_And here's chapter 4; delayed, perhaps, but still here eventually. I am sorry for the delay, but I was caught in the vicious circle of writer's block, one that I got out of due to the sheer awesomeness of my awesome friend :D_

_As always, a big huge thanks to those who favourited, followed, alerted, and/or reviewed, it means a lot to me and I appreciate your support! ^_^_

_Enjoy~_

* * *

**Chapter 4 - Perdre**

To say that Francis's week had been a complete and utterly miserable hell would probably be a gross exaggeration.

However, _not _saying it would probably cause the Frenchman to hurl the nearest breakable object in the naysayer's general direction.

Firstly, he had to announce that he was taking a month-long leave (because Antonia absolutely _insisted _that he stay for more than two weeks), and so would not be taking on any cases for a while. So long delicious outcome, hello slight crack in his ridiculously large savings.

Secondly, he had to redirect his existing work to whichever poor soul he felt like torturing. He had quickly decided to dump everything on the team of a Belgian girl and her co-worker, who had recently come in from Québec. They were inexperienced, which would give him that much more of an excuse to check up on the cases.

Lastly, he had to travel. And anyone who knew the Frenchman knew this about him:

Francis Bonnefoy hated, with all of the passion of his shrivelled up little heart, vehicles of any kind.

In short, he had _motion sickness_.

However, while one could walk or bike to mostly anywhere in Paris, one could do neither of those across the Channel.

Which is how Francis ended up drugged, tired, and frustrated on a much-too-cold train.

'_Long live globalisation and the wonders of transportation._' He thought bitterly as he repressed another gag.

The trip from his comfortable home in Paris to London had, up until now, been four long hours of sitting in vehicles and pumping himself into a Scopolamine-induced stupor. At this moment, he was coursing through the Eurotunnel, which connected the lonesome isle to the rest of the continent; soon enough, he would be getting in a pre-ordered car that would drive him another hour and a half to Antonia's flat.

And there, he could finally, _finally_, just sleep the rest of the day away on one of the couple's precious Sicilian sofas while the small Italian man would yell at him about just how _fucking expensive _those were and _how dare he lie on what belonged to his poor old Nana, god bless her immortal soul_!

Unless, of course, Lovino wasn't _there_ to actually yell at him.

'_Then again, why did I expect them to be at home when I came over? When have either Lovino or Antonia ever been punctual?_' Francis sighed tiredly as the Vargas' maid let him in and explained that the couple would be back later, and would he please wait for them in the flat?

Resigned, the blond simply sauntered off to their kitchen, where he found a bottle of wine and nursed two full cups until his hosts came back.

Antonia, a friend of his wife's, had been one of his only confidants for the past five years. The Spanish woman was one of those people that loved everyone dearly, and Francis was thankful for her friendship, even though she quite literally smothered him with her enthusiasm when she saw him sitting at the dining table.

"Francis! Hello! Oh, how was your train ride? Did you feel sick? You poor thing, I feel horrible! But I am so glad you're here!" She blabbered on quickly, laughing brightly while her husband stood at her side.

"Antonia, Lovino, I am very glad that you had me over. How are you both doing?"

Here, Lovino pried his wife off of the Frenchman and kissed his cheeks. "Ciao, Francis. I'm sorry we were late."

"Yes, ñaño, I wanted to call and warn you, but your cell must've been off. See, the ultrasound went on for longer than expected, and—"

Immediately, Lovino shushed her, and the woman blushed brightly when she realised what she had said.

Francis' eyes widened. "Ultrasound...?"

"Ah, well, it's uh, a long story..." Antonia giggled nervously and grasped her husband's hand. "This is what I was talking about...When I called, remember? We didn't want to tell anyone before we saw that everything was ok, though...But, since everything is fine for now, I guess I can tell you: I'm pregnant."

The Frenchman stood, shocked and silent, before drawing out a large smile.

"Oh, chérie, I am so proud of you! Congratulations!" He stood up and hugged her. "This is wonderful!"

'_She's...she's what?_'

"Lovino! Mon gars, I didn't know you had it in you! Come here!"

'_Look at how happy they are together...How I wish I could have had that with Jeanne_.'

"Bravo, tous les deux! You are going to both be wonderful parents!"

'_Bon dieu, qu'elle me manque..._'

As per tradition, more wine was brought out, and although only Lovino and Francis indulged themselves, the trio still spent most of their afternoon celebrating the news.

But while the new parents were genuinely happy, Francis was struggling to keep on a good facade.

'_How can I be so selfish? To feel sorry for myself while they are having a child. I guess all of those tabloids _were_ right; my heart _is_ cold as stone._'

His crisis was unnoticed by the two others, however, and the merriment continued until at least six in the evening, at which point Lovino set to cooking a quick dish for dinner. And while Francis didn't particularly like the man (who, in his proper opinion, was a _dick_), he could not refrain from quickly devouring his _heavenly delicious _food.

The blonde liked to think that it was Lovino's extreme dedication to the Church that had gotten him god-given cooking skills, because how else could the Italian surpass _him_, gourmet extraordinaire?

But after a few hours of conversing and congratulating, Francis stood, stretching, and waited as the maid cleared his plate.

"Mes chers, as much as I have enjoyed your company, I've just been sitting around all day, and I feel a bit sick. If you don't mind, I'll take a little walk to relieve myself."

With him, Lovino rose too, and grinned sweetly. "It's always a pleasure having you over, amico mio. Here, let me walk you to the door."

Still keeping that smile, the small dark man led his guest to the entryway, where he roughly grabbed him by the shirt and gave a menacing growl. "Now listen here, stronzo! Antonia's been fucking stressing about you for weeks, and if it hurts the baby, I swear I will break you in ways you can't imagine. So you'd better look like you're relaxed and happy, or else..."

"Why thank you, dear friend, for your concern. I'm sure I'll enjoy my stay here." The Frenchman drawled.

"I'm serious, coglione!"

"Fine! Fine! Now can I go out and relax? As per your order and everything."

Huffing, the Italian let him go, walking away while muttering curses that would probably get him excommunicated from the church.

'_Well have a good evening too, petit connard...'_ Francis snorted as he put on his coat and went out. But he supposed he couldn't be _too _mad at Lovino; like any new parent, he was going batshit insane over his child's wellbeing.

'_Not that I would know anything about that._' He passed through London's foggy streets alone, thinking resentfully to himself. '_Fate took my chance to be a father away. But hey, all the better. Now I'm free to just drink and fuck around, what else could a man want? Except for having lost the love of my life, there's nothing but pros in this situation._'

As he walked, the blonde heard a cheerful music coming from one of the buildings near him, and he looked up to the sign: "Frej Pub and Eatery".

Well, that bar was as good as any other, he supposed.

Entering, the tune became louder, and somewhere behind the ambiant smoke, he could make out the shadow of a guitarist up on a stage. Not caring to join in the festivities, he made his way over to the bar and sat down on a stool, motioning for the girl who was making the drinks.

"Well, sir, what can I get you?" She grinned.

"I'll take a glass of cognac, chérie...And you too, if I can." The man made a seductive face, which was promptly replaced by a confused one as the girl started laughing.

"Oh, you French men! You'd make any girl blush a pretty colour! But I doubt that my husband would appreciate that."

With that, she quickly turned to give him is drink and let him stew in his own misery.

Great, he shuddered as he sipped on his drink, everyone had their soulmate and happily ever after.

Except Francis, of course.

Because fuck Francis and his life; who was he to want joy?

Resigned, the blonde simply opted to stay around and drink; if he met someone interesting, all the better. And if he died from mixing alcohol and Scopolamine, well hey, at least he wouldn't have to continue dealing with his issues anymore.

So, hour after hour, he kept drowning his sorrows in alcohol and his heart in self-pity. It wasn't until two hours and five drinks later that he took a pause and sat, running his fingers over an empty wineglass.

"Hullo. May I get you another drink? You seem to be out."

Francis jumped when the deep voice interrupted him, and he looked up with wide eyes to a man who, by all of his appearances, seemed to be the one serving the drinks. "Where is the other bartender...?"

"She's off. I'm afraid you'll have to be satisfied with me for the night." He shrugged wide shoulders and looked at him expectantly.

'_Well, well, isn't he a witty little thing._' Francis thought. '_Not to mention that, beside those horrendous eyebrows, he's pretty cute._' With what he felt was the most charming smile he could muster at the moment, the Frenchman gave a quick wink. "Pas de problème avec ça, chéri."

Well, the new bartender may not have understood what he just said, Francis reasoned, but it was in French and his language sounded _damned sexy_, no matter what he was saying.

But without even a small spark of confusion, the other just snorted and looked right through him. "Frenchmen."

'_What, am I supposed to be flattered or offended by that?_' The flirt frowned. Unfortunately, he didn't speak this particular gentleman's brand of cryptic.

"Look, can I get you some alcohol? To drink? That's what you came for, right?" The shorter man continued, looking bored. _Bored!_ In the presence of Francis Bonnefoy, lover extraordinaire!

Now, there was no chance he letting this potential bed-mate get away!

"I'll take another glass of the Merlot behind you...but only if you'll drink it with me." Francis purred, this time leaning towards the other man and eyeing him from head to toe.

'_No way that English rosbif can resist this!_' Francis could basically _taste _his upcoming triumph. After all, _he never lost_.

Or so he thought, until all he got was a full wineglass slammed in front of him with not even a 'goodbye, call me later' from the bartender as he left.

'_Alright...that didn't go exactly as planned..._' For the nth time that evening, Francis' hopes were crushed, and, feeling a mix of anger and sadness, he chose to leave the bar. Nothing good was going to come out of it, and anyways, he was already feeling the dizzying consequences of drinking while medicated.

With a few slow moves, he pulled a random amount of bills out of his wallet and placed them on the bar. Then, the French man clumsily sat up and stumbled out of the joint, his head reeling and his legs numb.

'_Maybe I should just rest for a few minutes until my mind clears..._' He inched towards the side of the building and slid down, hiding his aching head in his arms. '_All I need is a bit of silence and I'll feel all better...And a bed would be nice...Mais que j'ai sommeil..._'

And for the next three hours, nobody noticed a sleeping shadow collapsed on the side of a closed pub...Nobody respectable, that is. Indeed, Murphy's Law clearly states that were someone to notice the sick blonde, it would _have _to be a gang of goons and pickpockets who declared themselves rulers of the streets. And while they took great pleasure in robbing the passed-out foreigner, their leader couldn't help but satisfy her ego by waking him up and telling him about his misfortune.

"Hey! You! The rich man!"

Francis groaned as a hoarse voice yelled in his ear, and flinched away violently when something hit him in the sides.

"Hm...quoi...?"

"Yeah! I'm talkin' to you! Wake the fucking hell up, man!"

The man fluttered his eyes open, and was met with the smirking face of a girl who was probably in her late teens. Her hair was dyed a dark pink, and she was surrounded by a group of boys about her age, each with a head coloured a bright shade.

"Ah, and the princess awakes! Glad t'have you here with us, my good man. I just wanted t'inform you that you've been robbed by London's finest gang!"

Francis stirred, and blinked a few times before realising what she had said. "...Robbed?"

"Yes!" The girl grinned. "But no need to be ashamed; you couldn't have escaped us anyways. We're all around London, and everybody knows that."

"I'm not surprised; with those horrendous clothes and hair colours, one would have to be blind _not _to know you were there." The French man chuckled drily, his mind clearing slightly.

'_Hey, if I'm going to die anyways, might as well die laughing_._'_

"Why look, gentlemen, we have us a comedian!" The leader gave a sarcastic laugh. "Those frogs are so good with their words; now, let's show this one some of Britain's famous physical comedy."

As the boys started to get near him, threateningly rubbing their knuckles, Francis sighed, bracing himself for impact. Because if he had learned one thing from life, it was to be a realist; and one of him winning versus five of them was _not _a realistic goal.

"Oi, you there! What in bloody blue blazes are you doing here?" A voice interrupted them, and everyone immediately froze, looking to an approaching shadow. "The fuck is this shit?"

'_The bartender!_'

Indeed, it was the blond man with the eyebrows that was coming towards them, looking extremely disgruntled. The pink-haired girl stepped up to him and snarled. "You again? Are you looking for trouble? Why do you keep stepping on my feet, eh? I try to make an honest living, and you just stop me!"

"I'd hardly call _this _an honest living, Maggie."

'_Maggie? Must be the girl's name._' Francis frowned, and opened his mouth to speak. "Euh..."

"Shut up, beardy. I'm already dealing with one arsehole, you don't need to add to the mix." The bartender snapped, and the Frenchman sealed his lips obediently. Who was he to refuse the man who was saving him, after all? All he wanted was to ask his name, but Francis supposed he too could just stick with a nickname.

Sighing, Eyebrows-man resumed. "Now, Maggie, my sweet, why don't you give the poor man back his money and leave him be, hm? He looks like he's been dragged through hell already."

'_Well gee, thanks, rosbif! You're looking quite dapper yourself!_'

'Maggie' gave a nasally giggle again, and strolled over to the short blond man. "Afraid I can't do that, my darling. See, he's stinkin' rich! But if you let us be...we could share in the profit."

At hearing that, Francis was indignant; that little thieving bitch! How dare she even _suggest _that _his_ hard-earned money be split in such a deal? But, being light-headed and just naturally calmer, he remained in his spot.

'_Now is not the time for impulse, Bonnefoy_.'

However, his saviour seemed to be much more hot-headed than he as he quickly pulled out a knife from his boots and pointed it straight at the girl.

"Listen here, Maggie: I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm fucking freezing my bloody arse off! So hand the man his money and get the hell out of here before I decide I want to make a creative finger-painting out of your insides!" Eyebrows-man growled, and watched the goons promptly abide to his kind request, running away with tails between their legs.

When they were out of sight, the bartender walked over to Francis, crouched down, and _tsk_-ed silently. "Good lord, man. What have you been doing here?"

Trying to compose himself, the Frenchman cleared his throat and struggled to get up before a wave of vertigo and nausea hit him, making him fall over. The other man caught him and slapped his cheeks lightly when his eyes started closing.

But Francis only sighed, numb to the outside. '_Oh god...My eyelids feel like they're made out of lead...If only I could get a few minutes' sleep..._'

And with that thought, all of his worldly problems left him as his consciousness slipped, and he found himself laying in total darkness.

* * *

_Oh no, a blackout to end the chapter! That's never been done before, ever ;)_

_And aww, isn't Lovino so nice, being all concerned for his dear friend's well-being? Man, he's just a bundle of joy, that one XD_

_Also, for a few specification:_

_- Antonia IS female Spain._

_- Scopolamine is a medicine used for motion sickness; side-effects include nausea and drowsiness. Alcohol consumption within 12 hrs of medication use only makes those effects more obvious._

**Translations:**

_**French:**_

[1] bon dieu, qu'elle me manque - _Good god, I miss her so much_

[2] petit connard - _Little motherfucker_

[3] pas de problème avec ça, chéri - _No problem with that, darling (meant as 'I have no problem with that [being satisfied with you for the night], darling')_

[4] mais que j'ai sommeil - _I am so sleepy_

[5] rosbif - _A__ clichéd (and, nowadays, used as jest) insult that the French used to describe the English; it is literally calling someone ''roast beef''. It's meant to insult the English cuisine, which, by some standards, is thought to be inferior. _

_As a sidenote before the translations, seeing as I missed a chapter last week, there will be a double-update within a few days, so by Monday or Tuesday, I should have a new chapter up! :) _

**_Italian:_**

[1] amico mio - _My friend_

[2] stronzo - _A__rsehole_

[3] coglione - _Jerk_

_If there are errors with the Italian, message me and I'll fix them :)_

_Anyways, thank you for reading; I hope you liked this chapter, it was great to write._

_Also, as a side-note: seeing as I missed an update, and I'm on a creative run, there should be a **double update**_ _this week. So, by Tuesday (if not earlier), I should have one more chapter up. _

_Again, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Leave me a note telling me what you thought, I appreciate the feedback :)_

_Thanks~_


	5. Yeah

_Allo!_

_And here is chapter five (On time?! It's a Christmas miracle!)._

_I want to first thank everyone who reviewed, favourited, alerted, and/or followed! :D As always, I really appreciate the suggestions and support and everything!_

_And now onto the story;_

_Enjoy~_

* * *

**Chapter 5 – Yeah**

If experience had made one thing clear for Arthur, it was this: when life threw you lemons and you made lemonade, life promptly threw the drink right back at your face.

So when he was forced (by his conscience) to bring a poor bastard to his apartment last night, and he was nice enough to lend him his bed, he was sure that there would be consequences.

Consequences, for example, like an overprotective friend.

When Gilbert had burst in his apartment that morning and found a sick-looking foreign man lying in his best friend's bed, he had immediately proceeded to rationally and logically _freak the bloody hell out_. Arthur had carefully observed that the grown man still seemed to retain the tantrum-having abilities of a five-year-old, and although it was funny to watch, it was not so amusing to be on the receiving end of the hissy fit.

"He could rob your place and leave you with nothing!" The German had yelled, worriedly glancing at the oh-so-dangerous-looking (and quite _unconscious_) man on the bed.

Here, Arthur had to retain himself from laughing. "Gilbert. I have absolutely nothing to steal."

With that issue aside, Gilbert had then begun to question why exactly a rich guy was passed out on the Englishman's bed. And although the latter had _tried _to explain, the albino had refused to listen, saying it was none of his business, and could they just get in the car?

Which is how Arthur ended up in the freaking worst car trip of his life.

Now, Arthur _loved _getting to ride somewhere. It was incredibly relieving not having to walk for once. But the issue was riding with Gilbert Friedrich Beilschmidt, anally retentive driver extraordinaire. Not only would he not start the fucking Volkswagen until Arthur had secured his seat belt (which was totally useless, in his expert opinion), but even worse, the bugger wouldn't let his buddy, his pal, his confidant and best mate, _drive the god-damned car!_

And though Arthur didn't generally ask much of life, he really wanted to get his hands on the steering wheel once more.

After all, who needed a license when they had been burning sweet rubber since they were thirteen?

But worst than that was the whole setting of the trip: the atmosphere was...how could one say it?

_Incredibly bloody awkward_.

Tension was so thick that it could only be severed with the kind of knife Sadiq used to cut up leftover bones for his dog.

Sighing, Arthur tried to break the unbearable silence. "Listen, Gilbert—"

"No. No, there's no need to explain! It's your life! If you wanna have a creepy guy in your bed, so be it!" The German interrupted, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

"Seriously, listen. See—"

"I don't need to hear it!"

With a cry of frustration, Arthur reached over and slapped the driver upside the head.

Hard.

"Listen here you pig-headed prick!" '_Oh yeah, that'll get his attention._' "The guy was getting robbed, I helped him, and then he blacked out. We didn't fuck, we didn't hug, we didn't even have a pertinent and engaging discussion about global politics! Bloody hell... Am I just not allowed to be nice to people?"

Gilbert's expression softened, and he side-glanced towards his passenger. "Yeah...yeah, sorry man..."

_Slap._

"Apology accepted. Fucking tosser."

Rubbing the back of his head, the driver continued. "But you just left him all alone there. What if he wakes up while we're gone?"

"I left him a note."

"A note?"

"Yeah. It says 'Dear French Stranger Man, I rescued you from a band of arseholes and since you passed out on me like a god damned pussy, I had to haul you all the way to my place. Now that you're clearly awake, kindly get the hell out of my apartment and leave me alone. Many thanks, Arthur Kirkland.'"

Gilbert stared at him for a long minute. "...Is that really what it says?"

"Eh, more or less." Arthur shrugged.

"..." Gilbert grew silent for a moment before drawing out one of his signature grins. "Well, aren't you just the most pleasant hostess, Artie my darling?"

_Slap slap._

"Just drive, idiot."

"I love you too, honey!"

The rest of the trip, thankfully, was free from that awkward tension, and instead filled with the sweet, technologically-manipulated sounds of Britney Spears (because apparently British radio stations just had no other music to work with). Gilbert hadn't even sung a word when 'Circus' had come up, instead keeping his eyes on the actual road.

Fucking miracle. Arthur was very surprised.

'_Very un-Gilbert-like, true, but hey, my hearing's still intact! Why question a good thing?_'

After a few more minutes, the Volkswagen was parked in front of a humble brick church that the pair entered. As per tradition, they sat together on those same familiar pews that Arthur had once hated with as much passion as one could hate a wooden seat with.

Silently, the Englishman lowered his head and listened to the sermons and the songs, mumbling to himself a quick prayer every so often.

'_May God bless my mother, if she is still alive, and may she lend me her forgiveness if I talk to her again._'

His breath hitched as he thought back to painful memories, but he swallowed back his pain, just like every Sunday, and continued onwards.

'_And may God also bless Allistair, that sacred devil, and may He save my worthless hide if I were to see him again. And bless little Molly and—_'

"Pst!" A small voice interrupted his prayer.

Brow scrunched, he bent his head a little lower and ignored the pest.

'_God-damned sod. Now, where the fuck was I? Oh, yeah. Bless Molly and Ayvar, and may they—_'

"Hey!" The voice began again, and this time an intruding finger poked him in the sides.

"What? I'm trying to repent here!" Arthur angrily whispered to the brightly smiling albino beside him.

"Oh, c'mon, Artie, you can't be mad at me! Anyways, wanna—" Gilbert started a bit too loudly before he was shushed by an older woman behind him. "Sorry! But Artie, you wanna come over to my place for breakfast?" He continued, this time quietly.

"Sure..."Arthur shrugged. "Now shut up, you're interrupting my being-a-good-Christian deal."

With a sigh, he went back to his original thoughts.

'_Bless Molly and Ayvar, may they stay forever healthy. Bless Peter, that pint-sized pain in the arse. Bless Alfred, too. I hope he's doing well._' He looked around to the priest who had begun saying the last pieces of his sermon, and finished up.

'_And last of all, if I can even ask for more, please bless Gilbert. I owe my fucking life to him..._'

* * *

Gilbert and Ludwig Beilschmidt were the two very lucky sons of a very unlucky father. His wife had passed away alone early on, and he himself had died in a car crash when the brothers were just ten and seven, respectively. From then on, their grandfather Aldricht had taken them in, and had poured all of his life's efforts into making the two boys successful. That included giving them part of his enormous wealth so that they could study at the very best universities.

Some of that money was of course versed in a very nice Victorian apartment that Arthur had grown very fond of. Those richly adorned pastel walls held his most terrible, personal, and wonderful memories.

Arthur was by now completely accustomed to going there. So when he casually entered the lofty apartment, tossing his coat on a hanger as per usual, and setting his shoes on a pretty blue mat, the last thing he expected to happen was to be slammed violently into the wall behind him, his back aching and his neck being littered with desperate kisses and bites.

"Gilbert..." He started, before being shut up by a quick lick on his lips. Sighing, he ran his fingers through downy white hair and broke the kiss. "Gilbert, calm down."

Immediately, the German stopped, but his breathing grew even more ragged and panicked, and he held onto the blond with a strong grip. "Birdie..." He croaked, resting his forehead against the other's and trying to settle down. "I..."

"It's alright, Gilbert, I'm not going anywhere." Arthur murmured, stroking the back of Gilbert's head and looking away from those deep red eyes.

With no other word, Gilbert bent back down to capture chapped lips, a warm tongue gliding deliciously over Arthur's. The blonde gently slid his hands over the albino's strong back, relishing in the pure warmth that he emitted.

Sunscreen and aftershave.

That was the scent that radiated off the taller man, and the familiar odour soon moved Arthur to quickly start aggressively kissing back. With a shudder, Gilbert moved his lips down and ran his teeth over the blonde's much-too-skinny shoulders. It was in between soft bites and peppered kisses that he murmured a high, a desperate "I love you."

Arthur suddenly tensed and looked away, whispering back a simple "Yeah."

And he left it at that, painfully ignoring the foreign tears that smeared his neck and the broken man that held onto him as if for dear life. But slowly, through salt and water and grief, the caresses continued; fingers kept touching, lips kept soothing, and teeth kept marking.

Somehow, they ended up on a bed, entangled in sheets and unreasoned passion; Arthur didn't remember getting there, and he was fairly sure that Gilbert didn't either.

But that hardly mattered.

They always ended up liked this, somehow.

It was a custom, a tradition.

The English man would feel almost as if he was violating a sacred law if he did not find himself flatly walking out of the apartment, breakfast forgotten and a heavy silence following him.

As he walked back to his own flat (which was a long, uncomfortable hour away), it seemed that even the weather seemed to berate him. The scolding winds were flapping angrily at his cheeks, and the soft mist of rain threatened a real downpour in the near future. If he was lucky, he'd be home before that.

But, as we had established before, Arthur was not a lucky man.

And when he entered his living room, dripping, drenched, and sporting a positively _murderous _scowl, he was not a happy man either. All he wanted now was a bit of food, a working heater, and maybe something to erase his memory, too.

Instead, all he got was a surprised Frenchman staring at him lazily from _his _balcony, sitting on one of _his _crappy plastic chairs, and sipping on some of _his _tea as if he owned the bloody place!

"You...you're still...here..." Arthur stammered, the little colour on his face draining even further.

"I...I'm still...here..." The stranger mimicked, raising an eyebrow.

"What are you doing here?"

With a bored look, the tall man looked out in front of him and shrugged. "Enjoying prime English weather."

Ignoring the veiled insult to his country, the Briton growled and paced back to his kitchen, where he saw a small piece of paper. "Look! I left you a note! Are you unable to follow instructions?"

"I didn't notice it."

"It's right here on the bloody table and I had put it on my nightstand; of course you noticed it!"

"Alright. I noticed it." The French man came back inside, and looked curiously at Arthur. "You seem a bit different this morning. Much less...punk-like."

The small blonde looked down at his simple tweed suit, and then back at the intruder. "Well, I can't exactly go to church looking like a street punk, and—no! That's completely beside the point! Look, why are you still here?"

"I hoped you would feel pity for me and let me nurse my hangover here, Mister Kirkland."

'_As if I haven't done enough, you twit? I ought to—_'"Wait, how do you know my name?"

The stranger motioned to the crumpled note on the table. "You signed it."

"So you _did _read it!"

"I never denied that."

With a cry of frustration, Arthur collapsed on his couch and covered his eyes.

'_Why is it that this day just seems to be filled with nothing but mishaps and idiots?_'

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the foreigner directly above him, looking distractedly at his face. Then: "You have monstrous eyebrows, Mister Kirkland."

_Slap._

"Oh shut up, fucking arsehole. At least I don't have some sort of pubescent half-hair growing on my chin!"

"Excusez-moi?!"

And that was Arthur's first fully-sober, mature, and completely adult conversation with the strange man from the bar. After a frustrating five minutes of arguing (an art that Arthur had completely mastered to the point of simply being pedantic), the Englishman had successfully managed to kick the intruder out, and was ready to resume to his daily activities. Thankfully for him, the diner closed on Sundays, and so he had no day job once every week.

Therefore, he thought it best to forget that that morning had even happened, and to maybe go outside and spend some time in the community garden. The rain had ceased, and so it was the perfect time to visit his plants.

Tossing on a pair of old jeans and a stained shirt, he ran downstairs and to the back of his apartment building where, along a crumbling grey stone wall and in decomposing wooden shelves, his little cove grew.

The garden was supposed to be maintained by the tenants, but said tenants had more important things to attend to (such as their jobs), and so the garden had been neglected. That is, until Arthur had moved in a good two years ago; his love of plants had made him want to make the then-dead patch of dirt into something _alive_, something cheerful.

And hell, in this environment, where hopelessness and frustration grew abundant, some joy was more than welcomed.

Surprisingly, it had even spurned another one of the unfortunate souls of the apartment building to come out and work with nature.

Matthew (or Matthieu, as the boy preferred) Williams, age nineteen, was in fact the only other person in the whole of the building that touched the garden. Having come from Canada to live with his father after his mother had died three years ago, he had at first been an extremely bitter and generally prickly boy, and did not get on well with others.

But, with time, he found _another _bitter and prickly person, and he had immediately made friends with them. 'They' happened to be Arthur Kirkland, and although his influence wasn't, say, _ideal_, the small man liked to think that he had given _something_ to the boy.

Be it a collection of books, a green growing sanctuary, or a sudden enjoyment of the powers of marijuana, Arthur didn't know, but whichever one it was, he was glad that he had befriended the lad. He too was an enthusiast of sarcasm, and although sweeter and generally calmer than the Briton, the boy was _incredibly _amusing.

So when he found the Canadian digging feverously with a spade, he delighted at the idea of finally having some good company.

"Matthew! Hullo."

"Hey Arthur, how's it going?" He didn't even bother turning around, instead tossing a bag backwards. The Briton picked it up and examined the bulbs inside. "They're tulips from the Netherlands. Lars brought them over from his grandma's."

"Is that so? Aren't they pretty..." The short man murmured, examining the dead weight in his hand. They had dry, crackling shells, but beneath that he could feel the livening moisture.

And that's what Arthur loved about plants: they could preserve themselves during hardships, but when good times came, they bloomed and grew and flourished and generally became beautiful, thriving creatures. Yet they always preserved that peacefulness about them; they were yielding and sweet, and they bent to Arthur's soft demands.

"Yo! Arthur! Dude! Wake up!" A slightly nasally voice woke him unpleasantly from his daydream (_which was some fucking poetic shit_), and he looked to a confused Canadian. "Arthur, what the hell was that? Why are you all up in dreamy land, eh?"

"Because dreamy land is a better world than this one, so shut up." He smiled lazily, bending down and picking up an extra rusting spade. "So, how are we supposed to plant these?"

With that, Matthew blushed and rubbed his neck sheepishly. "See, I was hoping _you'd _tell me that..."

"Didn't you ask that Lars kid?"

"Well I forgot, eh! Geez, man..."

With a thought, the Briton looked up to the already-reddening leaves of a little maple tree that Matthew had absolutely _insisted _that they plant. Since it was already autumn, the bulbs would come out exactly at spring, and if he remembered correctly...

"If I remember correctly, most bulbs are planted about twice their height down and twice their length apart; should work for these ones. So get going."

With that, the two men set themselves to arranging the Dutch flowers in a particularly moss-covered shelf, where the soil had grown rich and fertile from previous seedlings.

They worked in silence, as they both preferred. Occasionally, there would be a small bird or child that came to stare at the two blondes elbow-deep in soil, and Matthew was also smart enough to have brought a couple of cereal bars for them to snack on. But other than that, it was complete and utter calm. Peace. Serenity. Quiet.

Arthur couldn't have asked for anything more that afternoon.

The ambient breeze that sometimes came to lazily play with the crisp maple leaves gave way to a fresh scent it had carried from the country; the smell of farmland, forest, and fertility. It danced around Arthur's head until it had made him dizzy, and yet that disorientation was so pleasant, so natural.

Even after Matthew had left to go to work, he remained, enchanted by the comfort of his cove. He trimmed here and clipped there, making sure every single one of his plants what alright. Every leaf was a verdant green and not one branch was dead or sickly. It was absolutely perfect.

And even though the Briton knew he'd soon have to resign himself to the dreary, weighted-down fumes of cigarettes in a closed up tavern where miseries and anger stewed, he enjoyed the moment that he got in his garden. It was a rare time, and so a sweeter time, a sort of delicacy... It was his time, and so a better time, a sort of sanctuary.

Indeed, Arthur couldn't – and never did – ask for anything more.

* * *

_Oh man, another character? I swear one day I'll roll out of the exposition part of the plot ;)_

_As a specification, yes, Matthieu/Matthew IS Canada! _

_And another specification I probably should've made at the start of this story is that this story includes mostly Hetalia characters, but some are not (such as Patricia, Catherine, and Frej). _

**Translations:**

_**French:**_

[1] excusez-moi?! - _ExCUSE me, Eyebrows-man?! Oh, you did NOT just insult mah big-brother beard! Nuh-uh! *Sassy z-snap* ...Okay, it means Excuse me. __  
_

_So, that's the new development; I hope you liked it! _

_Also: updates should resume regularly now, so expect something next weekend. _

_Anyways, once again, I hope you enjoyed this chapter; if you have critics, questions, suggestions, or anything, drop me a note, I appreciate the feedback. :)_

_Merci bien~_


	6. Ah, Vous Dirais-Je Maman…

_Bonjour!_

_And how was everybody's spring break? Because I got to be a lumberjack! With a beard and everything (add an iPhone and an Instagram account and I'd be a hipster! -shot-)_

_Anyways, here is the chapter for last week. Okay, so to explain:_

_I wrote during spring break but I was too busy with trees so I didn't actually finish. However, I have this chapter done and the next one will be finished within a day (long live creative streaks!) so I'll be posting another one by my usual Sunday._

_Furthermore: there are some long conversations in French in this chapter, so I just put the translations side-by-side._

_Now, I want to thanks anyone who reviewed, favourited, alerted, and/or followed! Thanks for the awesome support, guys :)_

_And now onto the story~_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Ah, Vous Dirais-Je Maman…**

Whether you liked surprises or not was purely subjective.

For example:

If Arthur were to suddenly get an announcement saying he had won forty acres of land on a small, isolated isle in the middle of the Pacific where he could spend his days lounging and gardening, that would be a _good _surprise.

However, if Arthur's privacy were to be rudely get intruded upon by an arrogant French foreigner who refused to leave when asked nicely, that would be a _bad _surprise.

And as the latter had been _exactly _what he had gotten (because Lady Luck loved him so), Arthur had sworn to whatever cruel deity had his fate in his hands that his next week would be the most common, boring, and overall uneventful week _ever_!

So far, he had been quite successful:

Monday, he had worked and slept.

Tuesday had been a bit more exciting – he had worked, slept, _and _run (due to an unfortunate accident involving an angry neighbour's dog).

And Wednesday, well, that was today; a chilly October day during which he intended fully to keep in line with his current standing and do _absolutely nothing out of the ordinary_.

He had woken up early this morning and had taken a longer-than-usual time to lazily roll himself off the bed.

'_You'd think that years of doing this would get me into a habit, but it seems Morpheus' pull is much too strong for me._'

Then, after writing down that line (because he was a god damned _amazing _poet at five-thirty in the morning, thank you very much), he pulled on his clothes while trying to brush his teeth and ran out of his building, arriving at work a modest ten minutes late.

As per usual, Sadiq did not miss to point that out to him a good hundred times, and immediately set him on taking orders and serving the sole customer that was eating there (at six in the morning – Arthur didn't know people were willingly up at that ghastly hour).

And that way it was for a few satisfying hours; nothing was out of place, there was no dramatic intervention or love confession, no James Bond-esque fight scene for some sort of obscure Russian secret. It was just solely, simply, and deliciously _normal_.

Unless, of course, Fate, the cruel bitch, decided to completely botch Arthur's carefully-laid plans and introduce for him yet another source of conflict: a French man being ushered into the diner by a dark woman, with a short, disgruntled-looking man trailing behind.

"Shit."

"What's up?" Sadiq called over when he saw the Briton wearily eyeing the new-comers. "Why aren't you moving your butt and greeting these people?"

"Erm...would it be at all possible for Leyla to take these people?"

"No, Artie, it would not be at all possible for Leyla to take them. One, she's helping me out right now; two, this is still your job and I don't see why you can't take them to a damn table."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts! Go!"

Groaning, the blonde straightened himself out and went out to greet the group. Upon seeing him, the Frenchman had slowed down for a millisecond and had then turned his back to talk to the other man there in rapid-fire French.

Arthur ignored him and instead forced a smile and gallantly offered a hand to the woman. "Might I take you and your party to a table?"

Prettily returning the grin, she motioned to the two men to follow her. "Si! Lovi, Francis, come on!"

'_So, froggy's name is either Francis or...Lovi? What a bloody stupid name..._'

With that thought, he sat them down and offered menus, reciting the highlights of the meals with all the poetic eloquence of an actor reading Shakespeare's exquisite _Cymbeline_.

Yet the whole time, he caught his eyes straying treacherously to the familiar intruder, who was constantly staring pointedly at him. However, to say it was a friendly look was going a bit far – Arthur thought it a mix of mocking and amused.

Still, he kept his ever-polite facade and took their orders; when he had come back, he was about to leave when a thickly accented voice had kept him from being antisocial:

"Waiter, come back. Francis here says you took him in yesterday." He turned, seeing the small (and by the sounds of it, Italian) man looking at him.

"I did."

"Good man that you are! If _I_ were there, I would have left him!" The dark man grinned, ignoring the angry looks from his companions.

Feigning a dramatic sigh, Arthur shook his head sadly. "Had I known what trouble he'd be, I'd have left him too. But I'm afraid I don't have your luck, sir."

With that, they both burst out laughing, drawing attention from the others around them.

"Luck, you say?" The Italian let out between chuckles, "You had him for one night; I have him for a whole month!"

Here, the Briton gave a look of awe and surprise before muttering: "My condolences."

* * *

Odd.

That was the only word Francis could think of to describe the waiter.

A frigid mix of paradox: he had all the graceful airs of a ridiculously titled man, and yet too the cynical disdain and brutal honesty of the common one.

...Well, with that said, he _could _think of _one more _word:

English.

He was incredibly and irrefutably _English_.

Even as he stood there, sniggering with that little Italian bastard, Francis could see his Englishness seep through every crack of his character: his laughs were always quiet and in check, as if for fear of emotion; his movements were controlled and reserved, as if for fear of exposition; hell, even his teeth were stereotypically crooked (although here Francis could understand why: those orthodontic bills were scary, even to _him_).

"Lovi! Hush!" An angry-looking Antonia interrupted both his thoughts and the two little comedians. When she looked again at the Kirkland man, Francis shivered from the pure cold loathing that came out through her eyes; he could _almost _feel pity for the recipient of such a fierce look. "We are fine for now; you may leave. Thank you."

"You're welcome..." The English man mumbled with wide eyes, and rigidly turned his back to go and greet someone else.

From the look of both fear and contempt that he had seen etched onto the waiter's waxy pallid face, Francis could tell that he and Antonia had already developed a lovely relationship of hate between strangers.

"What an unpleasant man!" He turned to see the woman scolding her husband. "And how could you make fun of poor Francis like that! It's rude!"

"Oh, for God's sake, tesoro! I was just joking around!" Lovino pleaded, shooting Francis a death-glare from afar.

'_Well, how is this my fault, mon p'tit branleur?_'

"Hmph, you'd think that you wouldn't be so mean to our guests!"

"Bella! Come on!"

Here, Francis felt the need to help out the Italian, who was obviously powerless against his wife, saying that it had not been offending at all, and that was just how men joked with each other. Thankfully, he excelled at the art of bullshitting - he was a lawyer after all - and Antonia was satisfied with his explanation, turning a cheery attitude back on as if nothing had happened at all.

The Frenchman nodded quickly to Lovino and turned to the conversation between the couple; mostly, it was Antonia discussing her concerns about the baby.

Occasionally, however, her husband would give a meaningful glance to the lawyer as a sort of warning. And, the the latter couldn't really blame him; the poor guy had had to endure a whole day of Antonia agonising about _where Francis was _and _why hadn't Francis come back from his walk?_ She had been almost worried enough to call the police and get them to search for him through alleyways and gutters.

When Francis had walked through the door that particular afternoon, he had caught a veritably frantic Antonia in his arms and, later, a discreet punch from a veritably _angry _Lovino.

An yet: even though the Frenchman had suddenly disappeared for a night, only to come back reeking of alcohol and looking chewed up and spit out, the wonderful sainted woman that was Antonia had decided to completely forgive him, and had even gone so far as to _apologise _(though neither Francis nor Lovino knew what for).

So, with that, the lawyer had promised that his nights of drinking and sleeping in strangers' beds were over (which was a blatant lie), and he had done his best to look completely innocent and reformed.

Part of that act was going for lunch with Antonia and Lovino; or, it was actually mostly with Antonia. Lovino, who ran his grandfather's business, had only a quick hour to eat before he had to go back to work (a pleasant surprise for Francis, who knew much about the Italian's world-renowned laziness).

'_But maybe it's for the better – I don't think either of us would have kept good face in each other's company._' Francis mused, sipping on his newly-arrived coffee.

However, the moment that the liquid touched his tongue, he spit it back out like a child, grimacing at the _god damned bitterness! It was inhuman, it was intolerable, it was—_

Well, it was strong.

Discreetly, he looked up to see an unfazed Lovino smirking beneath the rim of his own cup, already shaking with a hidden laughter.

"It's a Turkish coffee; I thought you might enjoy a bit of the flavour of the country." The Italian remarked, turning around before the lawyer could respond and smiling at the new waitress that came over to bring their plates and food. "And it's a wonderful flavour as well. Gracie, bella."_Wink_.

...

Now, _this_ was interesting.

Francis had always known that Lovino was a flirt; it was hard _not to_. When he and Antonia were just dating, they had both come over to his office, where the sweet little bastard had charmed the socks off of his co-worker _and _his boss (coincidentally, the then-delivery-boy had subsequently been promoted the following week).

But the Frenchman had always supposed that he would stop once he had been bound by matrimony. After all, even _he_, the notorious Francis Bonnefoy, had ceased to wink and kiss liberally when he had married Jeanne. Yet it seemed to him right now that that nasty little habit had not been erased in the Italian man, and judging by the cold look on Antonia's face, he guessed that it was as unappreciated as ever.

Here, though, he only took another gagged sip of his coffee: his friends' issues were not his own, and so Francis much preferred looking for that English waiter, straying absentmindedly in and out of conversation. He noticed that the small man shuffled farther from their table than necessary, and instead delegated that pretty young waitress to them and the surrounding tables.

And that was too bad, the blonde thought, because the Englishman was certainly interesting. When he had woken up in his flat that fateful Sunday, he had been surprised not only to find the place clean (save for one drawer that was covered in black fingerprints), but also filled to the brim with various books.

Once again: _odd_.

'_I mean, he lives in the cheapest-looking dump in London, works at a bar _and _a restaurant, and yet reads Hemmingway in his spare time?_'

Plus, not only had he leafed through numerous sets of the golden classics, but he had also found other completely outlandish material. Take, for example, the stack of dusty Batman comics that had been laying around a copy of_ War and Peace_. Or, perhaps, the worn pages of Roald Dahl's _Matilda _stacked near a series of self-help books.

Francis was unsure just _what_ to think of that odd English man.

"Oi! Francis! Francesco! Bonnefoy!" A loud calling suddenly interrupted his recollections, and he looked to see a disgruntled (and therefore, usual) Lovino standing up. "I'm gonna go, work's calling. I wanna get there before some bastard fucks something up."

Still caught up in his daydreams, Francis nodded lightly.

"_And,_" The Italian continued while pulling out a fifty pound note, "I think I'll give that nice waiter guy a tip."

That move was obviously intended to further annoy Francis, but to the Vargas' surprise, the French man jumped on the opportunity. "Ah, Lovino! You are such a generous man! But look at your wife!"

"What about my wife?"

"She looks so tired! You absolutely can't let her walk all the way back to the apartment. Here, why don't you quickly drive her over – it'll only take you a second – and I'll take care of the bill _and _the tip!"

"Yeah, but—"

"Please, I insist!"

"Oh, Francis, you are so kind!" Antonia gushed, taking the bait and ignoring her husband's protests. "Come on Lovi, you'll drive me there – it'll be romantic." She winked.

At that, the Italian suddenly changed attitude and eagerly agreed, absentmindedly handing the blonde the tip.

'_Obviously, his work has been forgotten._' Francis smirked as he saw Lovino lovingly hold the door open for his wife.

As soon as they were out of sight, he asked for the bill and paid, hurrying for fear that the English waiter might leave. However, he was in luck as the small man was still milling about the diner, as cold and polite as he had been with them.

When he had just finished serving a table, the Frenchman approached him and tapped his shoulder.

"Pardon? Oh – wait...it's...You! What do you want again?" He was simply _incredulous_.

"Well, Monsieur Kirkland, I only wanted to give you your tip – from the Italian gentleman." Francis smiled and handed over the note, silently amused as the Englishman's eyes grew wide.

"I – This is...I barely served your table, why on earth– " The waiter looked suspiciously at the money before hesitantly taking it and stuffing it in his pocket. "T-thanks..."

"_And,_" He continued hurriedly before the frowning blonde could escape him again, "I'd like to invite you to have a coffee with me. As a thanks for your kindness."

Eyebrow arched, the Englishman's surprise grew to an almost comical extent.

"Oh, come now, Monsieur. You act as if no one has asked you out for a coffee before."

"Well – I mean...It's not necessary. I only did what anyone would have."

_'Oh, so _now_ we're humble.'_

"Je vous en prie. There is a wonderful café in Trafalgar Square; I'd love to go there with some good company. My treat." Francis flashed his best smile, one that anyone would falter under.

And indeed it seemed to work, because after but a brief moment of consideration, the waiter resigned. "Fine."

"Excellent! Might I pick you up at your apartment, today at six?"

"I'll just be getting off work at six...and I have another job at eight...How about Sunday, at twelve? My flat. Do you remember where it is?"

"Yes, yes." A nod and then an awkward silence. "Euh...Parfait; I'll see you then."

With that, Francis bid him farewell and left the man to stew in his confusion.

To be perfectly honest, though, the lawyer was just as confused. He had invited the man fully on a whim; true, he reckoned, thanking him was a proper excuse. But it was hardly what had motivated him.

Francis didn't properly know _what_ exactly had.

Still, plans had been made, although Sunday was a bit too far off for his tastes; he had nothing else to do til then, and—

_Ring ring!_

"Bonjour?"

"Ah, sacré crisse, mon Francis! Tu veux-tu bien répondre à ton maudit téléphone pendant une des premières dix fois que je t'apelle?!" (_Ah, god damn it, Francis! Would you like to answer your phone during one of the first ten times that I call?!_)

When he heard the familiar voice yelling over the phone, he knew he had found what to pass the time until the day.

_'Deus ex Machina, anyone?'_

"Que ce passe-t-il, Andréa?" (_What's happening, Andrea?_)

"Ton cas est en train de faillir est ce qui ce passe! Qu'essayes-tu de faire de toute façon? Bogdani est coupable de kidnap, de prostitution, et de trafic! Manon pis moi, on refuse de régler cette affaire foutue pour toi! Toi, là, tu peux t'en occuper." (_Your case is falling through is what's happening! What are you trying to pull, anyways? Bogdani is guilty of kidnap, prositution, and trafficking! Manon and I refuse to deal with this cursed affair for you! You can take care of it._)

"Chérie, écoute—" (_Darling, listen—_)

"Non, toi t'écoute. Je sais que c'est ton 'big case', ça, mais c'est pas le notre! J'peux pas le faire, pis Manon non plus." (_No, you listen. __I know it's your 'big case', but it's not ours ! I can't do this, and neither can Manon._)

Ah, that young little bohémienne. Such an idealist.

"Je comprend, Andréa. Ça va; je m'en occupe." (_I understand, Andrea. It's alright; I'll take care of it._)

That case was, like she had said, his biggest one yet, and he had to win it. So the moment he hung up, he searched for a place that served both WiFi and alcohol (the two components of his genius) and spent his afternoon researching on his Blackberry.

The people around him all wondered who the lonely patron cursing at his phone until 8 pm was.

Similarly, Francis spent his days until Sunday in that same manner, albeit this time locked in his guest bedroom. He passed the time furiously typing away at his laptop, scrounging the net for reports and friends in the police force, chain smoking and drinking until he would fall asleep on his keyboard. Then he would wake up again at anywhere from 4 am to 11 pm and start the whole process again.

To Antonia and Lovino, he was just drowning out his sorrows in work and wine, like he had done for the past terrible five years.

But to the lawyer, this was life: it was dissecting a case to find anything against his opponent; it was searching meticulously through every document available for that one detail that would win the case; it was even calculating how much he'd have to pay the judge, jury, and testifiers, and how that would affect his net profit.

On the surface, he was happy enough with that.

And Francis Bonnefoy never cared to go much deeper than that in his own emotions.

* * *

But not-so-far away, there was another scene.

A much more miserable scene.

There was even rain and thunder to complete the whole deal.

Oh, and bills. There were bills, too.

"Shit."

Now, let's see: if he could not eat for at least eight days during the next month...

"Doubly shit."

Maybe if he didn't use his furnace anymore? He had a few jumpers...

"Fucking piece of god damned, bloody shit."

The Briton pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply.

'_It's alright. It's like this every month; you have to make cutbacks. But you're used to it._'

Almost fearfully, he glanced again at the dreaded white slip.

'_It's when you run out of things to cut back on that you have an issue. That would happen to be now._'

Now, Arthur was a man of collection and self-restraint; he was a proper gentleman and proud of it. But suddenly, when it came to those taxes, he simply could not help but panic.

After all, when you are pouring everything you own into them, have literally no job security, and are just dirt poor to start with, there _is _something that you'd legitimately have to worry about.

The blonde squinted and pulled the paper closer to his face to read the charges.

"Well...I can pay it all off this time...Except the gas bill...But whatever, it'll do." He sighed and pulled out his rarely-used check book and scribbled down a few numbers, sticking it in an appropriate envelope and tossing that on his kitchen table.

'_Well, there goes my last spendable penny. Save for 118.39 £ in my savings, I am broke. Shit._'

Today was a meek Thursday, and the Briton had not been enjoying his past week or so. The arrogant French visitor had been a minor trouble; hell, he had even gotten free food out of the whole affair (or, he was _going to_, on Sunday – it went well with his new diet of not spending). No, it was something else altogether that bothered him.

Specifically, Gilbert.

Even more specifically, Gilbert Friedrich Beilschmidt, nicknamed Sparkly Blue Prussian, His Lord the High Mighty and Awesome, or just Gil.

His problem was muscular and tall, standing just under that Canadian weed; his problem had the screechiest, most heavily-accented voice _ever_; his problem was also albino and was constantly lathered in baby powder-scented sunscreen that he masked with aftershave and cologne.

Worse, his problem was demanding emotional affection and pure love, and Arthur would feel tears prick up in the corners of his eyes every time he thought of how much his poor problem must hurt.

Because it's not that the Briton didn't love him.

That damn German had saved him; how could he not?

But he couldn't give to Gilbert what Gilbert wanted, and the man just couldn't get that through his incredibly thick skull.

Arthur Fitzwilliam Kirkland, son of Victoria and Albert and brother of five, was simply not cut out to be a lover.

He could love physically; but the part of him that was supposed to be loyal and attached just didn't work. Maybe something had malfunctioned in him a long time ago; maybe he had always been like that.

Whatever the case, he was no good for Gilbert.

If only Gilbert could see that...

"Damn it!" The Briton yelled to no one in particular. Then a quiet sob: "Damn it all..."

This Thursday was definitely terrible.

He felt weak.

He felt guilty.

He felt _bad_.

He wished there was just something that would make him feel instantly well.

'_Maybe something magic in the form of powder or liquid._' A dark voice whispered tantalizingly at the back of his head.

Arthur shook that thought off.

No, he couldn't—

'_Although I very well could..._'

Yes, but—

'_Oh, come now. Who has to know? What I do is my own damned business!_'

And with that prideful cry, that dark voice won like it had so many (too many) times before.

Seeming almost lifeless, Arthur rose from his futon and trudged slowly to his bedroom. There was one drawer there, one that he never cleaned.

He didn't think Windex could wipe out his shame.

It was covered in dark prints from his burnt fingertips, and filled liberally with needles and base. He grabbed one each of those, and then dumped them back again on his kitchen counter.

The next step was perhaps the hardest: getting a spoon.

That was because he had a _broken bloody spoon drawer_.

Some could say Arthur was evading temptation; others yet might think he was just too lazy to move his amazing collection of total nine spoons to another drawer. No matter the reason, he still had to kick the damn thing in before retrieving the familiarly blackened utensil (that he had lovingly nicknamed Harley).

Using his small paraffin oven, he warmed up the dose with some water and lemon juice and then skillfully filled the needle to the brim.

Like the expert that he was, he then simply injected it in the crook of his arm like he had a hundred times before, and sat down on the nearby couch.

'_There we go_...' He smiled giddily as he felt his body melt deliciously into the suddenly soft pillows.

These times were, at once, the best and worst moments of his life.

"I'm so sorry, Gilbert. I try, really." There. That was the worst.

Then with a final inhibited nod and a further sink into the seat, he gave in to the best and forgot about the rest.

* * *

_Well then._

_That was fun._

_SO! Specifications that I should totally make:_

_#1. Manon is Belgium._

_#2. Andrea is Quebec - an OC, but defs not a major one. I just needed French speaking countries and I had a different plan for Seychelles._

_#3. Manon and Andrea are the team that Francis assigned a couple of cases to._

_#4. The 'Canadian weed' thing - I didn't mean weed as in smoking weed. More like calling Matthew a weed because he grows so quickly. My headcanon Canada is tall and only slightly muscular. Yup._

_Aaaand that's about it, I believe._

_So, I hope you enjoyed that chapter, that last bit was by far my favourite part to write ever (although the research behind it was awkward and slightly horrifying)._

_Questions, comments, concerns? Drop me a note and I'll be glad to respond! :D_

_Thanks for reading~_


	7. Café Au Lait and Scones

_Hiatus - off. I'm back! Not much to say so I'll get on with the story._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 7 – Café Au Lait and Scones**

Matthew Williams – now _there _was a name almost no-fucking-body knew.

Whenever he talked to people, it was like he was discussing things with a brick wall. No one ever listened.

It seemed to him that the only time people actually realised he was there was when they needed something. And they always came to ask him for favours at the worst times, too.

Take today, for example: it had been a truly gorgeous Sunday.

Matthew – no, _Mattieu, _merci beaucoup – had woken up bright and early, as per usual, just to greet his father and watch him monotonously haul himself over to work. Then, he had fried himself some sinfully crispy bacon and had decided to spend the rest of that glorious morning high as a kite in Saskatchewan.

No particular motive as to why; Mattieu just wanted to rest sometimes, thoughtfully sitting cross-legged on a beanbag on his balcony, stick in between fingers, looking all eloquent and artistic and shit.

Unfortunately for _him_, however, that's where the whole 'using him at bad times' thing came in.

"Matthew, lad! Open the door, I need something!"

'_Well, fuck me and my plans._' The Canadian paused just as he was about to light a newly-rolled joint.

"Can't you come later, Arthur?"

"No, not later. Now open that damn door, or so help me God, I will kick the bloody thing in!"

With a groan, the boy got up and lazily dragged himself over to his front door. The minute he opened it in the slightest, a worried-looking Arthur quite literally burst in, eyebrows knitted and looking worse for wear.

Being used to the fidgeting elder's lack of stress-coping strategies, Mattieu grabbed him firmly and tried to relay to him some of his amazing serenity (through osmosis or some shit, y'know?). "Artie, chill…What do you need, man?"

"I need to borrow some clothes."

'…_What?_'

"What?" He had been disrupted for _that_? Well, god damn. "Why'd you need clothes, Artie? Are you playing dress-up for Gil? I bet he's all into that kind of kinky role-playing."

"Pardon me?!" The Briton flushed a furious scarlet and the younger blonde let out a few sniggers.

"Oh, c'mon, Artie! Let me in on the dirt. Tell me: is he more into maids or leather?" He gave a silly eyebrow wiggle. "Or maybe both? At the same time?"

Taking a mental note of when his neighbour blushed brightest (in this case, it was leather – fun!), the Canadian decided to be nice as the other man was obviously in distress, and he stopped the taunting.

"But seriously, Artie, why do you need my clothes?"

With a disinterested shrug, the Briton invited himself over to the small bedroom shared by the teen and his father, and started rummaging freely through the old drawers. "Well, you see, it's like this: I brought a nice drunk French man over to my place one night so that he wouldn't get robbed, right? And he, like a typical nice drunk French man, is not leaving me alone. So," Here he paused to examine a wrinkly white dress shirt – stained – before tossing it away, "I somehow got myself an outing with him."

"You mean a date?"

"Not exactly. But the important thing is that we're going to Trafalgar Square."

"Uh, ok."

"No, I mean it. _The _Trafalgar Square."

"…And?"

Suddenly, the Briton turned around and looked disbelievingly at the youth. "And? _And_? What do you mean _and_? It's Trafalgar Square! It's posh, it's clean, it's fancy, it's— You have no idea what it is, do you?"

Blankly staring, Mattieu shook his head and let the other man simply turn back to his clothes with a snort of outrage. He didn't even bother to explain.

But while the elder fumed, the boy took the liberty of rummaging through his father's drawers, knowing that he and Arthur were barely the same size – with the Briton a short broad man, and he a tall and lanky youth – a fact that the other had clearly neglected in his hurry. When he had found something acceptable (a dark green shirt and grey trousers - to match Arthur's dullness), he threw the outfit at the desperate searcher's head.

"There ya go, fancy-pants. Now you can go to Trafalgar Triangle or whatever in _style_." Mattieu smirked as he headed back to his precious beanbag chair.

The last thing he heard of Arthur was "_Square_, you smart-mouthed blighter! And thank you!" yelled out as he left the flat.

Finally!

'_And now, back to sweet old Mary. Did ya miss me, girl?_' The boy smiled affectionately as he reached in his pocket for the joint.

However, akin to moments when you cannot feel your phone, a wave of dread overcame him as he came out with only a lighter in the crook of his palm. With panicked pats all over his jeans, Mattieu searched for the drug, and when he did not feel it on his person, he proceeded to casually sprint all around the flat, peering through every nook and cranny. It was only an exhausting twenty minutes later (and by then he was ready to give up the rescue mission and simply roll a new one) that he found the cheeky thing peeking out at him from _right_ under the beanbag.

So then, for the second time that day, he had plopped down on his soft chair, ready and eager to smoke the fruit of his labour.

And yet again, for the second time that day, he was interrupted.

"Hey! Open up!"

'_Oh for fuck's sake._'

"Go away, random stranger! Whatever you have, I don't want it!"

"Oh come on, Matthew! Let me in!"

_Oh. _

_Him!_

At the sound of that familiar accent – a favourite of the Canadian's, which pronounced his name as a deliciously exotic _'Massew'_ – his sociability levels suddenly shot up, and he hopped over to the door, where he was once more roughly shoved aside as another nervous person entered the calm sanctity of his home.

"What do you need, Gilbert? I was about to have a butt." The boy complained playfully, surprised when the German's face descended into horror.

"You were about to have a _what_?! Wow, Matthew, I didn't know you were of that persuasion…" Here the newcomer struggled for words. "If you want me to come back at a better time…"

Now, it was Mattieu's turn to be confused. "What…? I was just talking about my butt." He held up the joint. "I didn't know you were so sensitive about pot, Gilbert."

Within a moment, the shock cleared from the albino's face, and he gave his signature cackle. "Oh, _that _kind of butt. Man, your American slang is too cute, Matthew. I thought you were about to go down on some guy's arse!" A rare moment of thought on the German's side. "Which would be super cool, too."

"W-what? I-I-I…No! No, I'm not about to do that!" The boy sputtered – enough to make Arthur proud – adding in a rampant blush. "And I'm Canadian, eh. Not American. Huge difference."

Gilbert waved him off. "Alright, whatever, Mister _Canadian_. But I wanted to ask you if you knew where Artie was. 'Cause he left without me right after church and I wanted to talk to him about stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Ja. Adult stuff. Anyways, have you seen him?"

Mattieu nodded slowly. "Yeah, he just came over, actually. Wanted to borrow some clothes. Apparently, he's got himself a date at Trafalgar Whatever."

As he heard that, the albino's already pigment-less face drained of whatever colour it may have held, and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. "A…date…?"

"Yeah, with some French guy he met, I think. Or at least that's what I got from him."

Trembling – from shock or anger? He didn't rightfully know – the German searched for a chair to sit on. "A date."

"Uh, yeah…Hey, Gilbert, are you okay? You seem a little pale…er. Much paler."

"I…I just can't believe it." He muttered. As he pinched the bridge of his nose, he couldn't help but let out a hoarse sigh. "Warum, Vögelchen?"

This moment of misery stood stale and awkward in the air until the blonde cleared his throat and took a comfortingly tight grip of the sufferer's shoulder. "Hey, Gil…Do you want some water? Or, like, a hug or something?"

When he realised how oddly he was acting, the albino looked up to two concerned violet eyes staring at him, enlarged comically by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and he forced a tired smile.

"You know what? A hug would be awesome right now."

* * *

At a completely different place, however, a completely different scene was unfolding.

To someone observing the two companions, it may have looked like two close friends jokingly mocking each other.

But to the two men, it was more than mere teasing: it was war.

It had all started when the Frenchman had picked up his 'date' at the same small apartment and had then insisted on walking to the café. Mind you, it was a rather _long _walk, as Arthur was kind enough to repeatedly point out, but Francis had only mumbled something about enjoying walking in reply. It was then that the remarks had started, with the shorter blonde's off-hand comment about how if Frenchmen were already so good at running, then it was true that it'd only be logical for them to also enjoy walking as well.

This, the other had seethingly replied to, was better compared to the British's need for sailing everywhere. Although that was logical too, he ascertained – when one had no friends nearby, one had to go and find them across the ocean.

That pleasant kind of banter, a quick and merciless verbal competition, had continued until they had reached their destination – the Caffè Nero, a lovely high-end establishment with outdoor seating – where a waiter had interrupted them, and they had deemed it a good time to restart their conversation (and this time on a lighter topic).

Unfortunately, it seemed genuine friendliness was impossible between them, as the moment the food arrived, Francis opened his trap.

"It is nice to have such tasty meals; I find them rarer in England."

To this, a thick eyebrow rose, challenging the speaker to tread on that delicate topic. "Is that so?"

"Oui." A dainty sip of coffee. "The food here is not appealing to those with taste buds."

Arthur imitated the aloof manners of his tablemate and gave him a semi-surprised look over his teacup rim. "Just as the French streets are not appealing to those with a sense of smell, right?"

"_Excusez-moi_?" An indignant glare was shot as mock diplomacy was brusquely dropped.

"Insult for an insult, sir." Arthur chimed mockingly.

A huff. "Not an insult, _monsieur_. Simply a well-known fact. After all, when one boils the taste out of everything…"

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" The Briton interrupted him. "You know that's not true anymore. British cuisine has evolved to a much more sophisticated culinary level."

Francis wasn't buying it. "Really?"

"Of course. These days, we don't boil; we microwave everything."

It took the Frenchman a minute to digest the words before bursting out in full, unrestrained laughter. His deep timbre seemed to boom throughout the open air with the dark, open vowels earning a few smiles from around him.

"_Monsieur_, I have misjudged you." He chuckled when he had finished.

"Is that so, _monsieur_?" Arthur gave a Cheshire grin while butchering the French.

"Oui: here I thought you were as dry as most other Englishmen. But you definitely have some spirit."

The smaller blonde thanked him through another sip of his tea (a most _excellent _Earl Grey) as his companion continued.

"But that still does not change my mind. Microwaved or boiled, English food is still terrible."

"I won't bother to argue this," Arthur spoke around a small mouthful of his sandwich (delightfully nicknamed a 'tostati'), "since you've obviously no idea what you're talking about."

"Bien sûr, bien sûr." Francis hummed, getting starting on his own meal (mushroom soup and side of brie and bread – perfection). "But we are discussing the…euh…_conneries_, the…"

"Idiocies?"

"Yes! Why not get to know each other instead?"

The Briton looked suspicious. "Alright…"

"Excellent! Tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?" Still here Arthur took on his well-known protectionist stance, something Francis did not miss.

Hoping to dispel the tension, he leaned forward and grinned invitingly. "Just about your life, _monsieur _Kirkland. Where are you from? What have you done?"

The Briton took a long sip of Earl Grey, eyeing his companion wearily before answering. "Well, I'm British; I was born in South Cambridgeshire – it's in the east." Pause. "And I've done nothing particularly remarkable in the past, say…" Here he counted quickly on his fingers. "A good five years, I do believe."

The answer he got from the Frenchman was but that same smile, albeit washed out with confusion. "I…It's not exactly what I was thinking of, but…"

"I answered your damn questions, didn't I?"

Francis stared at the Englishman before sighing and getting back to his soup. "I suppose you did."

"There. So you've no reason to be acting so upset. Except…Now it's your turn."

"_Pardon_?"

"You heard me. I told you about myself, now you tell me about yourself."

"Well, _monsieur_, I was born in Marseilles, I studied law in Paris, and now I am a lawyer."

A mildly surprised look from the shorter man. "A lawyer?"

"Oui!" Francis answered with pride.

"Then I was right." Another elegant taste of the tea.

"About what?"

"You really _are_ as crooked as you looked."

"Non mais là–" The blonde was about to once again enter the familiar verbal battlefield when he saw the man sitting in front of him. Legs crossed, one hand resting on his elevated knee and the other holding the teacup that did a miserable job of hiding his enormous grin: it was a game to him.

'_And this is __ how he plays_.'

Relaxing once more and smoothing down his ruffled feathers, Francis imitated the other's casual pose and shot back the same wide smile with an edge of irony.

"Et vous monsieur, vous êtes tout aussi un con vulgaire et un abruti que _vous _en aviez l'air_._ "

And as his companion stared silently at him with an odd and puzzled look, Francis leaned back on his chair, self-satisfied. He popped a piece of bread into his mouth as he mentally finished his sentence.

'_Abruti, mais sacrément charmant, tout de même._'

* * *

_And there we go! Fun fact: this chapter I had started around when I declared my mini-hiatus, and all I got to do was re-vamp it into something readable. In the end, I was left with 3 full versions of it, all with different endings that would change the story completely.  
_

_Talk about keeping your options open ;)_

_But no, besides my slight OCD, I actually really liked writing this chapter because I love being in a kind-of Matthewian perspective. Although I'd call it more of an extremely non-limited omniscient... Point is, I love Mattie. And Gil (I make him suffer but I love him, really!)._

_Also, my little break period went extremely well - I've never done more hardcore planning in my life! And I got to Google the shit out of places and things, so that was fun too :D Research, oh yeh!_

_And before I forget: I'm really thankful to the people that stuck through this, because I know that it sucks waiting for something to upload (especially if you're impatient like me XD), but I'm happy that some people are willing to wait for me. So thanks! :)_

**Translations:**

**_German:_**

[1] Warum, Vögelchen? - _why, birdie? _(Isn't it so cool how German nouns are capitalised?! I find it to be the most ballin' thing since sliced bread. Just sayin'.)

**_French:_**

[1] Merci beaucoup - _thank you very much._

[2] Bien sûr - _of course/sure._

[3] Conneries - _idiocies_

[4] Non mais là– - _Really, now_–

[5] Et vous monsieur, vous êtes tout aussi un con vulgaire et un abruti que _vous _en aviez l'air - _And you, sir, are just as much of a vulgar sod and a jerk as _you _looked._

[6] Abruti, mais sacrément charmant tout de même - _A jerk, but still god damned charming._

_And there we go! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
_

_Thanks for reading :)_


	8. Fate's A Strange One

_And I'm back with the second post-hiatus chapter!_

_And for future reference, Guillou = silly endearnment version of Gilbert._

_Thank you, and enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 8 - Fate's A Strange One**

It was early – the sun hadn't even come up.

And it was at this time that sleepy London town woke up.

The poor got up to collect their miserable salaries; the drunks got off the streets and trudged off in a daze; and, the strays got out of their lairs to stretch their wiry limbs. Indeed, it was between these fragile, quiet moments that the city got ready to face another day.

However, on this particular morning, someone was disturbing that habitual peace.

Someone was running.

It was somewhere around 5 AM – people were barely walking, let alone _running_. But that one set of feet kept on bouncing violently off the ground, the runner's breaths quickening with each push and muscles burning like hellfire.

His eyes, too, were like hellfire, shining fiercely. But their gleam was not from the strain; it was from tears.

The runner looked quite mad like that then, dashing haphazardly through streets and weaving past the staggering Londoners while leaving behind fresh teardrops every few steps.

But the runner had a purpose.

His steps might have been irregular, but they had a specific destination.

To be precise, his feet were going until they had reached that familiar peeling bleached door.

And even then, when the resident grump had opened that door, the eager runner couldn't help but jump around once again, lifting up the English man and spinning him in circles.

"He did it!" Was the first strangled cry that Arthur got from Gilbert.

"Who did what?" Arthur had just gotten out of bed, and was as of yet not ready to receive an overly-excited albino into his home. However, that was what he had gotten when he had answered the door. That and a hug from the sweaty man – he must've been out for his morning run.

"Ludwig! He asked her! They're finally going to do it, Birdie!" Gilbert screamed, grin stretching from ear to ear.

Here the Briton lost his short patience and he grabbed his friend's muscular arm to still him. "What are they going to do, damn it?!"

"Arthur," the German man breathed a bit slower now, "Ludwig asked Felicia to marry him. My little brother's getting married, Arthur!" And once again that short-lived calm was lost as Gilbert took the other's calloused hands in his and started dancing about the narrow room. "Oh god, my little brother's getting married! Little Ludwig! Mein Kleine Scheisse kopf…" Here he fondly wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "I never thought he'd grow the balls to ask her…But he did!"

Now, it must be said that Arthur had never quite liked Ludwig. He hadn't _disliked _him, per se, but the two men were both too rigid to befriend each other. Also, Arthur thought that Ludwig had a pole up his arse.

But his best friend's enthusiasm was contagious, and he couldn't help but to throw his arms around the latter and roughly rub his back. "Congratulations! He'll be very happy; that little Italian girl is good for his heart. Tell me mate, when can I expect your nephews so that we can all go fishing?"

"Hey, hey, hey! No nephews for now, man! Luddy's only, what, twenty-one?"

"Twenty-two."

"Yeah! He can't have kids yet; he has to study and all that shit, y'know?"

"I suppose so." Here, Arthur took a pause to put on some pants (thing he had been doing before Gilbert had burst in). "But his girlfriend – well, _fiancée_, is she still in school?"

"I think she's graduating this year, actually…Yeah, she's my age so she should be right out of culinary school." And then moment of thought. "So I guess you're right, they might be _cooking up _some kiddies soon!"

Arthur cracked a grin before ruffling his friend's short hair affectionately. "Hah, hah, Mister Beilschmidt. Very punny."

The albino did the same to the Briton's hair with a cackle. "Oh, c'mon, man! That one was good, admit it!"

"You're right; I concede. It was at least a four out of five."

"Four-point-five!"

"Haha, fine!"

It was quite odd for Arthur to be in such a good mood at such a miserably early time. But as he stood there with Gilbert amidst laughter and good humour, he felt _good_. The mood was light and it seemed like all of the trouble that had been burdening him before had lifted away with the sound of their silly giggles.

With a sigh, the two men quieted down, and Gilbert pulled down Arthur beside him on the horrifically coloured futon. They sat there like that for a good minute, enjoying the thumps of their steadying heart-beats and the feeling of the other's ragged breath on their skin. Then, the albino suddenly piped up.

"Hey Birdie, not that I don't love it when you're pressed up against me and all, but do you have work today?"

"Shit."

Like a flash, the Briton jumped out of Gilbert's arms and ran to get his socks and bag, yelling at his guest from his bedroom.

"Gilbert, as much as I appreciate you coming – and I'm very happy for your brother – some of us do indeed have to go out and make money! And _you _need to get to class!"

While the short man milled around to make sure he had everything, his friend simply got up with a lazy stretch and headed over to the door. "Yeah, well see, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about." As the Briton passed him, he reached out and grabbed the lanky arm to stop him. "Birdie – _Arthur_. We…We haven't spent a lot of time together, and…I took a day off 'cause I was hoping I could spend today with you, just like in the old days."

"I…" Arthur looked furtively to the spot beside Gilbert's head and then smiled softly. "Yeah. I'd love that."

Satisfied with the answer, the man of German descent let go of his friend and waited until he was ready to leave the apartment.

They walked together to the diner, with the shorter man constantly trying to keep up with Gilbert's long-legged strides. That, unfortunately for Arthur and his trust issues, left ample time to talk.

"So…" Gilbert started to clear a steady silence. "How're things going?"

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "Things are usual…" Silence. "How's school?"

"Awesome. I'm acing the shit out of it. And I've got a big project coming up."

"What about?"

"A paper about some historical buildings."

"Historical buildings?"

"Well, not necessarily. But I wanna focus more on historical architectural structures. Cathedrals and shit, y'know?"

The blonde smiled fondly at his friend. "Yeah, you were always such a history nerd."

"And _you _were a lit nerd." Here Gilbert paused while gazing steadily at the dilapidated buildings around them. "How's the book going?"

The Briton looked the other way and hummed. "Haven't had the time to work on it."

"Ah…"

"Yeah…"

Awkward silence seemed to be bent on ruling their time together as it settled in once more. The two friends could simply play a game of avoiding each other's eyes, and with what seemed like keen interest they looked at the bare and frankly _uninteresting _scenery around them. But Gilbert was never one to enjoy such silence, and so in another ten minutes, he broke it again.

"Listen, Birdie, we need to talk."

Arthur kept on looking at the concrete buildings to his left, and the albino took that as a sign to keep talking.

"I…I'm sorry about what I did like, two weeks ago or whatever. I don't really know what came over me. I wanted to tell you this the week after, but you had left church before I could, and then Matthew said you were…" Here he swallowed a lump in his throat. "He said you were out on a date. So I couldn't tell you then either."

The Briton shrugged nonchalantly. "It's fine."

"No, really, Birdie, I'm super sorry! It was so un-awesome of me to do it."

Chuckling, Arthur turned to face his friend as he gave him his usual crooked grin. "No, really, it _is _fine. And you shouldn't even be sorry about two weeks ago. It's not like I resisted. Nor did I find it unenjoyable."

At that, Gilbert smiled to himself again and looked down at the ground, his pale cheeks flaming up a brilliant scarlet.

"Gilbert…"

"Yeah?"

"You're blushing."

Cursing, the taller man brought his scarf up over his quickly reddening skin, grumbling something about 'stupid albinism' and turning away from his friend.

Arthur sniggered at his poor friend's reaction before piping up again. "Wait, did you say _Matthew _told you about my…err...date?"

Gilbert looked embarrassed for a minute. "Yeah…I kind of went to him because you weren't answering your door…In the end we just ended up going outside for a bit. Did you know the kid's really into photography?"

"Of course I know, tosser! He's practically like my little brother." The Briton snapped before softening his features and placing a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "But I think it's great that you went to talk to him. Matthew's a very nice lad and he really looks up to you."

Surprise ran clear through the albino's face as he looked down to the blonde. "_He _looks up to _me_?"

"Yeah, I don't get it either."

"Oh shut up, Birdie!" The two men laughed before Gilbert continued. "But man, how old is Matthew anyways?"

"I believe he turned nineteen last summer…"

"Is he…Is he gonna go to school?"

"He wants to; but his mum's will only gives him her money when he's twenty or so, so he's waiting 'til then."

"Cool."

The rest of the walk was done in silence, and it wasn't really much too long before they had reached Arthur's workplace. Gilbert, who had beforehand been well-acquainted with Sadiq's sister Leyla (in the most sexual of manners), chose to simply sit quietly with a small book right beside the window. He and Arthur rarely talked during the next few hours; the Briton was too busy working, and the German was enthralled with his novel. But, there would still be chance moments of eye-contact between the two, and then they would both break out into ephemeral smiles that would quickly disintegrate to looks of mild boredom or tired disinterest when they lost each other's eyes. During that whole morning, the only times they had actually talked to each other was first when Arthur had to redirect a flirtatious Leyla from a growingly uncomfortable Gilbert, and second when Arthur had had to forcibly remove Gilbert from the window because the sun was beating down too strongly on him.

For the Briton's lunch break, the albino had ordered two bowls of haddock soup, one of which he forced his friend to gulp down in front of him. Although it was much less forcing rather than asking nicely.

After all, why would Arthur deny the meal?

Then the morning was repeated almost word for word, including the return of Sadiq's pretty sister (although this time it was her brother that had angrily dragged her away), and of course moving a properly pissed-off Gilbert to an even shadier spot when the setting sun had begun to blaze through the diner.

When Arthur's shift had ended, Gilbert had happily trailed after him to the apartment and then the pub, where he had been a regular for the past couple of years. He faithfully sat at the bar and chattered with his best friend whenever the latter could spare a few moments; when he had ordered three roast beef sandwiches, he had also been careful to occasionally call Arthur over and pop a piece of bread in his mouth.

This of course got them a few taunting cat-calls from Mathias (who had come in later to help his grandfather), and a few dark looks from some of the men sitting around them.

However, pertaining to both Gilbert and Arthur's 'I don't give a shit' philosophies, that hardly bothered them as they kept amusing themselves.

Slowly, the bar filled, and the Briton got the pleasure of observing his friend whose expert skill resided in starting fights…and usually winning them. Frej himself would occasionally come out of the poker room to grin gleefully as Gilbert's fists connected with another jaw and he let out a childish whoop of victory.

Then, all of a sudden, the patrons emptied out at around nine – after all, most of them had work the next day. But a few remained, and among them Arthur and Gilbert.

Here it must be noted that while betting is not necessarily illegal, it isn't so good an idea to keep a bar open for that sole purpose past a certain hour. On the other hand, to do so brings in not only more money, but more fun as well. It was one of the two reasons that had motivated Frej to open his doors to any stragglers that wanted to risk their savings on the probabilities of one horse outrunning the other. It also guaranteed Arthur the extra work hours that he desperately needed and couldn't get in any other business save for prostitution (and from his experience, that was a _terrible _idea).

So the Briton and the German stayed behind, and while Arthur simply served and drank the ordered ales, Gilbert joined in the fun occasionally – not that bad of an idea, since his luck was decent. He had even won fifty pounds thanks to the strong legs of a pretty palomino mare named Morweena.

Only a good hour after midnight did Frej call to close the place up for the night, and by then, neither Arthur nor Gilbert were particularly sober or awake. They had stumbled to the nearest of their apartments – and here it happened to be Arthur's – coursing through the darkened streets and weaving through people's minimal yards to get there faster.

They had laughed as one of them would occasionally stumble over their own two feet, and especially when Gilbert had run smack into a stop sign.

Even drunks could appreciate the irony.

Once at the apartment, they had folded out the futon together because the bed was much too small for the both of them, and had then lain side by side.

It hadn't been long before hands found themselves roaming lazily across the sides, backs, and fronts of the familiar warm bodies near them. Lips had followed, locking sweetly before beginning to adventure further along to necks, shoulders and chests. Legs intertwined and soon low moans of approval started breaking through the night's thick silence as pleasure grew.

And yet this time, Arthur had carefully noted, was much more different than last time. Two weeks ago, the albino had been clutching onto him with an almost forceful desperation and need. Likewise, the Briton had been wildly biting and pulling at hair while crying out hoarse obscenities.

But now, it wasn't just a rough roll in the hay.

Arthur liked to think of these moments as a kind of dimmed down version of what they had had before. Just like back then, their kisses simply smoothly rolled along, and fingers stroked quite casually, in no particular hurry. All of the comfort from before was here now; there was just one thing missing. And to both of the men's misfortune, that thing happened to be love.

Because although they might have been having sex, at this point, the blonde could barely see it as something beyond friendship – albeit a very _fucked up_ friendship.

He hoped, too, that the other man saw it as that as well. He was pretty sure he didn't, but he still hoped.

However, like with much of Arthur's other hopes, this one was quickly dashed as he heard the familiar "I love you" filter through the sounds of breathing and squeaking springs. As per usual, the Englishman didn't answer and instead focused more on where his hips were going and what his hands were doing.

'_This is wrong._' Was the only thing he could think as he yelled out the German's name and as they lay there afterwards, the Briton resting, out of breath, on the slowly rising pale chest.

It was only a short few minutes later that Gilbert had fallen asleep, neatly and rigidly laying like a soldier beside the other man. Arthur took that rare opportunity to look over him for just a little while.

The futon was facing his balcony window, and so the faint moonlight could easily find her way to the room, slithering softly across Gilbert's pale body, drawing shadows there where his firm muscles were, shaped exquisitely from years of gymnastics. The fresh perspiration added a layer of sheen across his whole body, and the Briton chuckled as he remembered all those times Gilbert had complained about sweat and sunscreen making him ''shine like a fucking pussy''. But Arthur had always liked his friend's skin – despite what the German might say about his albinism, the Briton found it beautiful in its own way. And here with the moonlight shining down upon it, he could fully admire its almost translucent quality. He could trace almost every vein that travelled up the inside of the albino's thighs, and he could faintly remember when he had pressed kisses to that very spot of faded skin, back when the hoarse cries from Gilbert's anaemic lips would make him happy, _glad_.

Now, they just made him feel guilty.

As silently as he could, the Briton rose up to his elbows and pressed a chaste kiss over a sharp cheekbone before turning his back to the man beside him and closing his eyes.

* * *

Ring! Ring! Ring!

'_What in the name of…?_'

It was the mating call of the male _Alarmus clockus_, one that is made resoundingly shrill and loud to attract the female of the species, which serenaded Arthur out of his deep, lovely sleep. As per his usual morning routine, he threw whatever soft object was under his head directly to his left – as he had always done.

And so, it was a great surprise when not only did the god-damned alarm clock not shut up, but the pillow, traitor that it was, bounced off the futon's armrest to hit him smack in the face.

The shock at least woke the Briton up enough to be able to coordinate his hand to the aggravating alarm and turn it off, at which point he was able to contemplate why exactly he wasn't in his bed. However, the memories of last night were quick to flow in, and were accompanied by a significant soreness in his lower body as he got up from bed.

Yupp, he _definitely_ remembered what had happened last night.

Groaning, Arthur slugged over to his bedroom to get dressed and then to his kitchen, where, were he drinking anything, he'd have spit it out from the surprise. The small blinking numbers on his microwave read 6:15 – he was late. In the midst of his mental panicking, however, he was lucky enough to notice a note taped to his fridge door, which he ripped off and read frantically.

_Yo Birdie!_

_Good morning :)_

_Didja have nice dreams of me last night? ;3_

_You'd better have, cuz I had no fucking dreams – like, seriously._

_You snore like my fucking grandpa. What the fuck. I didn't sleep or anything. Fuck you._

_Oh and I set the alarm for like 6 or some shit cuz man, you must be so tired!_

_And I called your boss and gave him an excuse, so he knows you'll be late. So don't continue having your shit fit (cuz I know you're having one right now, so stop it)_

_But that doesn't matter – what __does__ is Saturday. See, the awesome me was having too good of a time yesterday, so good that he kiiiinda forgot to mention that Feli-baby and Luddy are having this engagement party thing ^^" (super short notice, I know. And Luddy is so anal about planning, too…The shit love does) Anyways, I, the awesome big brother is invited (obviously) and! I get to bring a partner!_

_So, Birdie, wanna come?_

_LOL why am I even asking? You're coming with me bro! But since you can't come to the party dressed like a bum (no offense yo), we are going shopping, loser! Fuck yeah Mean Girls._

_So ask your boss for a day off, huh? Pwease? Just imagine Aster's puppy-dog eyes – I showed you the picture of him, right?_

_Yeah, cuz nobody can resist that shit!_

_I'm picking you up Saturday, 10AM! Be there or I will hunt you down and dress you in a pink princess gown with frilly bows and a leather speedo and __I will make you walk in public all day with that shit on_. _Just sayin'._

_Oh, and there's a coffee and sammich waiting for you in the microwave – heat it up, kay? :D_

_Kisses, bitch!_

_- Gilbert B._

Arthur smiled fondly as he read the letter, and although he feared what the 'excuse' given was, he was still thankful to his friend. But then again, he should've expected it – Gilbert planned ahead for everything. Now walking with a lighter step, he reheated the breakfast bought for him and marched on happily to the diner.

But there, it was to his great surprise that he was accosted by a worried-looking Leyla.

"Arthur, you poor baby! My brother said that you were in an accident! Oh, tell Leyla where it hurts! Is it here? Or here?" She cried and she started patting the Briton down for injuries (although why she assumed he'd have so many injuries on either his arse or cock was suspicious, to say the least).

Not even within a minute into the sexual harassment session did Sadiq finally appear to pull his employee away from the girl and drag him to the back of the diner. There, he threw the blonde a dark look (which Arthur assumed was code for "don't touch my sister – even if _she _touches _you_") and began:

"So, your boyfriend called me up."

Arthur was sceptical. "Boyfriend? You must mean Gilbert."

"Look, I don't actually give a rat's arse if he's your boyfriend, or fuck buddy, or your what-the-fuck-ever. Point _is_, he called me up at five-_fucking _-AM to announce that you had had – and I quote – mad, wild sex until dawn," The Turk grimaced as he exaggeratedly imitated Gilbert's scratched voice and accent, "and that you'd be late. So, although that's a nasty excuse, I guess it's valid."

At the mention of the 'excuse', Arthur felt himself fume a little bit, but in the end, it _had_ worked. So, he let his co-worker continue.

"Also, he said you probably had something to ask me, so…do you?"

"Ah, yes…" The Briton fiddled with a penny in his pocket. "Might it be possible for me to take Saturday off? Gilbert's – the guy who called you – well, his little brother's getting married, and he wants me to come with him. But that's on Saturday, so would it be alright if I were to, uh, take one of my paid sick days?"

"That's all?" To Arthur's surprise, Sadiq merely shrugged. "It's _your _sick day, so take it when you like."

"And you're fine with the fact that I won't actually be sick?"

"Hey, I'm not sick on _my _sick days either."

"Alright…Thanks…"

At this point, Arthur was unsure of what exactly to think of his boss' grandson; he didn't think he'd get his day off without a fight. And to be fully honest, up until right now, he had guessed that Sadiq was an arsehole, inside and out. But maybe he was just an arsehole on the outside.

Which was a surprise. This part – asking Sadiq for the day off – had really been the only thing the Briton had been dreading to do; seeing as the Turk was pretty much the one who ran the damn place, whereas his grandmother simply owned it, he had had to ask _him_, and not her. And the issue with that was that the Turk was rumoured to be the most demanding slave-driver with zero tolerance for sick days in the district.

But… maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was a generally nice guy who simply had an attitude. Or maybe he was a jerk with a soft spot for weddings. Whichever the case, Arthur chose not to question his good luck, and instead put extra effort in his work day so as to make up for his upcoming break. Later on in the day, he had to ask Mathias' kindly grandfather for the same thing; but that hardly worried him. Hell, he could miss a day without notice, and Frej wouldn't so much as bat an eyelash.

With such unusually pleasant chance, Arthur barely saw his day fly by, and so it caught him slightly by surprise when Gilbert burst in at 10, sharp on the clock, not a minute late or early – and it was Ludwig that was the anally retentive brother? – with his usual loudness and enthusiasm. Arthur had then been led to the god-damned _fanciest _clothes store he had entered ever since his sister Molly had made him dress up for a date – the shirts' prices were in the triple digits, for God's sake! With coercion and a very full debit card from his friend, the Briton had ended up with plain grey slacks and a creamy blue cotton dress shirt. The former had gotten a new suit too, albeit he opted for something a mite classier – black trousers and a horrifyingly expensive silk shirt whose dark purple made Gilbert look even paler than he usually did.

Then, within a few quick minutes in Gilbert's little platinum Volkswagen Passat, a sturdy machine from 2008, they had arrived back in the German brothers' apartment, only to be blown away by the cacophonic gust of music, chatter, and laughter. At the door, too, their eardrums were further assaulted by the squeals of the small brunette that came to greet them – or, rather, hug them very, _very _tightly.

"Feli-baby!" Gilbert cried out to his future sister-in-law. "How's the little angel that took my little brother's heart?"

Felicia, who barely looked (or sounded) a day over eighteen, giggled brightly as the albino ruffled her rich curly hair. "I did not take it – he gave it to me!" Here she turned to the other guest, who had been standing stiffly behind. "And hello! You must be Gilbert's…ah…" she struggled for the word. "His man-friend, si?"

"Just friend." The Briton smiled and offered his hand to shake. "Might I extend my congratulations to yourself and your very lucky fiancé?"

"You may!" The Italian girl grinned.

"Err…" The proffered – and rejected – hand was awkwardly retrieved and a cough politely showed the blond gentleman's discomfort. "You're…uh…yes, congratulations."

With a final good-bye hug, the hostess moved on to greet the rest of her guests, and Gilbert promptly burst out laughing.

"Oh man!" He snorted as they progressed through the mass of people "You should've seen your face!"

"I was surprised!"

"But seriously, shaking a chick's hand? You kiss their cheeks, bro! Like, what the hell are you?" A brief pause. "Oh yeah, I remember: you're English!" And the cackles resumed.

Arthur chose to simply answer to the insult with a punch to the muscular arm and a growled out "Shut up, wanker!"

The hit was ignored, and instead the white-haired man gently led his companion to the drinks table by the elbow. However, they hadn't even popped the caps off of their beers when another woman seemed to jump out of nowhere. But she, on the other hand, was much taller (and intimidating – but Arthur would never admit it) than Felicia. To add to her large presence was a massive head of untamed, faded flaxen curls that were only poorly retained by a warm orange headband.

"Guillou!" Mystery-woman called out, taking Gilbert's face in her extravagantly manicured nails. "You are finally here! I have missed you so much, mon chouchou!"

'_What an odd accent…_' Arthur thought as she cooed over his friend. '_Like a mix of French and…German? Yeah…Super odd._'

"Auntie Soleil! The albino tried to smile through squeezed cheeks. "I didn't know you'd come over!"

"No? But I told Luddy on Friday that…Tch, no matter! What _does _matter is that I finally get to see my favourite nephew!" Here again she burst into pursed little coos in what the Briton suspected was a certain French dialect. In that light, the latter chose to simply sit back and regale in the ever-darkening blush on his friend's face silently. So silently, in fact, that it was a surprise that this 'Auntie Soleil' noticed him at all:

"Oh, Guillou! Is that your friend here?"

"Uh, yeah…" The German firmly clasped Arthur's cold hand and brought him forward. "Auntie, this is Arthur…Arthur Kirkland. Birdie, this is my aunt—"

"Soleil Baudin, enchantée!" The tall woman interrupted her nephew. "And _you_, are Arthur. _The _Arthur that my little Guillou has talked about _so _much!"

"I haven't talked about him _that _much!" Gilbert was flushed.

"Tch, menteur. But tell me, my dear, where are you from?"

The Briton smiled obligingly. "I'm just a boy from the English country – South Cambridgeshire. Perhaps you know of it?"

"Non, to be honest, I have worried little about places outside my little Colmar. It is in Alsace."

'_So that was the accent!_'

"Well, why worry about rainy England when you can worry about the suns of France, eh?" Arthur mocked gently, which only received an enthusiastic nod.

The trio prattled on, and while the two blondes were the two main present in conversation, Gilbert's eyes would occasionally gaze far away and then take on more misery than Arthur thought eyes could hold. Soleil noticed his noticing, and elbowed him discreetly in the arm.

"Look over there – the brown-haired girl with the pretty blue dress." She whispered.

"The one hanging off some pompous-looking chump's arm?" The Briton looked on to see a strikingly beautiful woman with crackling green eyes and the most charming smile. Precisely, the woman his friend was currently staring at (quite creepily, if he might add).

"That chump _is _very pompous indeed – he is Guillou's cousin, Roderich; my second-least favourite nephew, too. And that girl, the very pretty one, she is his wife, Elizaveta."

"She's a proper good looker, huh?"

"Mhm." Soleil nodded and shifted closer to her conspirator. "Guillou used to be madly in love with her when he was younger – I think that at seventeen, he was ready to propose to her. But then she went and ran off with Roderich over there, and the poor boy never got over it."

The Briton was surprised; he had never heard that story before. "Do they still talk?"

"Sometimes. She feels bad about it, but who can blame her for not loving him? And Guillou, well…Let's say he can barely stand _thinking_ about her without getting depressed, let alone _talk _to her."

"Poor boy…" Here Arthur felt a slight lump in his throat. '_You're no better, tosser – in fact, I'd go as far as to say you were worse! Shame on you, Arthur Kirkland! Toying with poor Gilbert's heart when it's already been broken once._' What he assumed was his conscience scolded him. Trying to ignore it, however, he looked about and noticed a hardened pair of baby blue eyes also directed at the pretty Elizaveta – except they weren't love-struck, wretched, or curious. No, they were a steely kind of _angry_. "Say…Is there a backstory to Ludwig and Elizaveta?"

"Luddy and Elizaveta? Non, I think not, but—ah, you noticed his glare. Yes, Luddy hasn't been very happy with how sad Elizaveta made poor Guillou feel. You see, Guillou is like a father to him, and when he lost the girl, he completely let his little brother down. But Luddy doesn't blame him – he loves his big brother too much, it's one of his flaws."

"Do you…" Arthur tried to tactfully ask the question. "Do you blame anyone?"

"Me? Non, not really. Elizaveta isn't at fault for loving Roderich, nor is Guillou at fault for loving her or Luddy at fault for loving his brother. It's just how some families are."

"I see…" The man took a thoughtful sip of his beer. "Are you here with your husband, by the way?"

"Why?" Soleil winked playfully. "Interested? If so, I'll have to disappoint; were you a girl, I'd have accepted, but I'm not much on men."

Arthur's eyebrows rose in surprise before he shrugged and laughed. "Damn, all the pretty ones like girls, huh?"

"Oh, charmer that you are! No wonder Guillou likes you." The woman giggled, and the two then looked affectionately up to Gilbert, who was staring back at them confusedly.

"Can I help you two with something, or are you just gaping at my awesome?"

"Ah, no! We were just thinking you should, ah…" The French woman's thoughts galloped towards a non-suspicious answer. "You should visit your brother! Yes! Go and say bravo to Luddy, and take your handsome little British friend with you!" Here she pushed the two men towards the living room with rushed out commendations and greetings, before winking to Arthur and running off.

The albino looked oddly between the spot where his aunt had been and then back to his friend. "Seriously, man, what were you two talking about?"

Arthur shrugged. "None of your business, now go and congratulate your brother; the poor bloke's probably waiting for you!"

The two walked over to the middle of the living room, where the younger Beilschmidt brother was lounging comfortably on a chair, surrounded by young boys around his age. With great fanfare and teasing, Gilbert cheered his "stuck up little Schatz" on "finding someone to get the ruler out of his butt." Arthur's praises were much more minimalistic and common of polite society, but they earned a shy smile nonetheless. Then, with a hasty nod, the former excused himself and rushed off to the washroom.

When he was finished, though, he came out only to bump into someone and get wine spilled on his hair.

"Oh, oh, oh! Pardonnez-moi, monsieur…euh…euh…_Oh_."

Through burgundy droplets clinging to his eyelashes, Arthur rose his eyes to see a very familiar pair of surprised electric blue orbs… and a stupid-looking half-beard.

'_Oh indeed._'

* * *

Francis stared open-mouthed at the slightly shorter man as his drink dripped down the waxy, pallid face, getting caught in straw-coloured hair – and in _monstrous _eyebrows.

"Monsieur Kirkland…I am truly sorry."

Irritation sparked in those forest green eyes that seemed to absorb all of the light around them. "Watch where you're going, Bonnefoy."

'_Oh, so now we're on furiously-spit-out-last-name basis?_' The Frenchman chuckled as the bartender/waiter entered the bathroom once more and tried to wash off the alcohol – tried being the operative word. The toilet paper he was using was only tearing and leaving white specks in his hair and on his face. Francis sighed; he was like a child. "Here, monsieur, let me help you."

The Briton was led to the sink, where calloused fingers splashed cold (see: freezing!) water on his face and hair, and then a soft hand towel dried him up down to the last drop. Even the one stray drop that had rolled down a pale chest and that Francis had taken an uncanny pleasure in finding. There had, of course, been objections from the other man whose privacy was being invaded, and that annoyance in the Brit's voice was probably why Francis had even bothered to get that bead of water.

"I mean, really, man! That one drop wasn't going to kill me!" Arthur growled as he smacked the Frenchman with the towel he had snatched.

Calmly, Francis took it back and threw it into what looked like a laundry hamper. "Yes, Monsieur Kirkland, you are fully welcome for the gracious service."

"Oh, shut it!"

"Please, no need to thank me further! I am – how you say? Ah oui! – I am blushing. Stop. Je vous en prie."

"I said close that trap, you git!"

"And they say the English are the epitome of polite society." Francis remarked drily, rolling his eyes amusedly at the growing exasperation of his companion.

"I heard that, wanker! And it's not exactly easy to be polite when in your thoroughly infuriating presence!"

"My presence is only infuriating because you cannot appreciate its value." The Frenchman sniffed, to which he received only a single-syllabled insult.

"Ha!" And then it continued. "Yeah, a value of _zero_." But soon a resounding laugh boomed out of the Englishman. "Although most other people's conversational values here are in the negatives, so compared to them, I guess you're fun enough to talk to."

"Why, Monsieur Kirkland," Francis purred as the duo started to subconsciously walk about, "is that a compliment? From you?"

"Don't count on it!" Arthur warned, stopping in his tracks as they reached what appeared to be a makeshift dance floor.

Couples twirled and stepped; there were Roderich and Elizaveta again, and also a pretty dark girl – if Arthur remembered correctly, she was Aisha, Felicia's (very attractive) Moroccan friend – dancing with a very familiar brown-haired man. Looking around, he also noticed Gilbert's eccentric aunt Soleil holding a very happy-looking red-haired woman as they swung to the beat.

"Say, Francis…" The Briton started as they both looked absentmindedly at the happy couples, "Why in the bloody blue blazes are you here anyways?"

The taller blonde hummed as he scratched his beard. "You see the man dancing with the brown-skinned girl?"

"Yeah?"

"He's the guy that you joked with at the diner. He's also the bride-to-be's brother, and the husband of my good friend Antonia." Here he motioned to a curvy woman chatting across the room with Felicia and some other girls, but whose eyes often found her husband back on the dance floor. "That's her, there, in the red."

"I remember her…"

"And she remembers you. Not in a good light, either."

Silence.

"But worry not, Monsieur, it would not be impolite to say that the feeling is mutual. For one, I know it is, and for seconds, she _can _be a bit unpleasant if you get on her bad side."

"Which I suppose I did?"

"Monsieur, you ran naked through her bad side, with 'I hate Spain' painted on your chest in bold letters."

Arthur let out a few chuckles at the ridiculous image, and his companion soon joined him with a good-natured grin. "Quite the poet, aren't we?"

"Well, I'm French, aren't I, Monsieur?"

Another wave of laughter came before the tone switched suddenly. "But hilarious as you may be, could you _please _stop calling me 'monsieur'? It's unnerving."

"But it's polite to do so…"

"Not in England; we're on first names now. So please, call me Arthur."

"D'accord…_Arthur_." The name was tested out on a foreign tongue. "But in return, you must do something for me!"

The Briton's eyebrow rose in suspicion. "And what would that be?"

"Dance with me."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Francis took his present companion's hands in his. "Let's dance."

"And what exactly makes you think that I'd want to dance with a bloke?"

"Nothing, really; it was a risk to take."

Arthur quieted down for a minute before rolling his eyes violently and sighing in what seemed to be the greatest exasperation. "Bah, fine! You got me. We can dance."

Francis' clear eyes warmed up, and he calmly led his partner to a smaller corner of the room, where they attempted to dance. It was difficult, though, because while dancing with a woman was easy enough, dancing with another _man _set one back on the idea of gender roles.

"Okay, so, your arm goes—"

"Non, non, non! Your hands on _my _shoulders, not the other way around!"

"Alright – no, wait a minute! What makes you think you're leading?"

"I'm taller than you."

"Yeah, by, like, a quarter of an inch! Not even! I'm the man here!"

"We're both men…"

"You know what I mean, you cocky little shit!"

Once that disaster was sorted out (and Francis grudgingly gave in to be the 'lady'), the issue of leading sprung up again…although in a more painful way:

"Ow!"

"Aie!"

"My foot!"

"Careful where you step, Arthur!"

"Why don't _you _watch where _you _step, God damn this?"

"Ah – my _shin_!"

"Sorry! Didn't mean t—bloody hell that smarts! I won't have toes left at this end of this!"

The squabble continued for only a few minutes (much to the amused bystanders' dismay), before the two blondes decided that it was a much safer and worthwhile pursuit to go out to the minuscule balcony with two cold beers – imported, and Gilbert's favourite kind, Arthur had noted – to discuss their favourite subjects: themselves.

Francis had delicately tried to ask about whether Arthur was thinking of entering into a college or whatnot, to which he had only gotten a shrug.

"The future's uncertain." A sip of the beer. "So I can't really say that I'm planning on doing anything. My biggest focus right now is to work so that I can sustain myself. After all, survival is the primary concern, right?"

"I see…" Francis didn't really see. "Any hobbies of yours?"

"Well…I like rugby." The Briton commented, and as he did, his companion took quick looks over the small body. While muscles were invisible under the clothing, Francis still noticed the stocky shoulders, strong jaw, and wide stance which suggested that the Englishman was made for rough sports like it.

"Anything else?"

"Something else…? I guess…writing. Yes. I like writing."

Surprised, Francis peered curiously at Arthur, who was looking hard in the other direction. "Writing? What kind?"

"Fairy tales. Stories. Anything with words. Words are simply beautiful." Here the tired green eyes lit up with a newly kindled flame, and they seemed to invite the world to burn beautifully with them. "To me, words are like sorceresses that, with the right sort of combination and pronunciation, can bewitch all those whose eyes lay upon them!"

The excitement of the last word floated still in the air for a moment, tense, and during that time, Francis couldn't help but stare as all of the passion, all of the will and romance and anger, burnt slowly out, until once again the familiar look of lack of sleep and slight disdain for everything came back.

To break the silence, the Frenchman smiled. "And you said _I'm _the poet."

Arthur gave back a grin as well before swinging his bottle again. "Never said you were _the _poet."

"Oui; so I suppose that title would be given to you instead?"

"Me?" The Briton scoffed. "Unlikely. It'd be best sensed to give it to The Bard."

"Who?"

"William Shakespeare, of course!"

A mocking smirk. "Ah, oui, Shakespeare. Si Anglais."

Unamused green eyes met malicious blues, before the pale thin lips of the Briton uttered something that the Frenchman never thought he'd hear. "Oui, au moins c'est Anglais. Parce qu'il faut l'admettre, ça aurait pu être pire. Ça aurait pu être Français."

'_Mais alors…_'

"Vous parlez Français?" The elder's eyes widened to comic proportions.

"Oui, je le parle, et alors?" Arthur challenged, his gaze hardening once and his shell closing in again.

"Je…"

"What, you didn't expect it?"

"Well…no."

Scoff. "Oh, and for further reference, calling someone a 'con vulgaire' and an 'abruti' is not polite. I realise that French men have a mouth to make their mothers blush, but honestly…" Arthur's playful smirk came back as he jeered at the other.

Francis sneered. "At least we treat our mothers right; you English boys abandon them and make them work."

The next cutting response was expected (Francis fancied it'd be something leaning towards a comment on his mother's promiscuity – it seemed appropriate), but he got none of that. Instead, the stocky blonde looked away and took another swig of ale with a short grunt.

'_How very odd. One minute playful – and infuriating – little minx, and the next you ignore me. Who are you, Arthur Kirkland?_'

Now, Francis would never admit to a low-to-middle class Anglo-Saxon with choppy bad hair, crooked teeth, and unhealthily sunless skin interesting him; he was much too good for that. However, for the sake of honesty, it had to be said that he quite liked this boy. He couldn't quite call the new arrival a refreshing gust of youth or anything – Arthur looked older and more cynical than even he. He wasn't particularly friendly, either; at the café, all Francis had noticed was how the snappy Englishman never mentioned friends or family – rather, he seemed to be, and _preferred _to be, alone. So what exactly the basis of his attraction was, he could not tell. Maybe looks. Maybe the odd taste in books. Maybe even the eyebrows.

…Alright, _definitely _not the eyebrows.

But something was there, and it made Arthur desirable. Even if only for a little while, Francis had to admit that he wanted the Anglo-Saxon – what kind of want was still to be determined by him.

So he gave his snake charmer's smile once again and looked keenly at the Briton, just like he had at the little foreign restaurant. "Mons—I mean, _Arthur_…"

"Yes?" The voice came out hoarse after the long silence.

"Care to join me again tomorrow for a coffee?"

The blonde thought before shaking his head. "No, we did that last week." Here he squinted as his mind tinkered a bit further. "But tell me, have you ever seen the Crown Jewels?"

"No…"

"Perfect! I'll show you around the historical sites. What do you say?"

Francis smiled warmly. "Parfait."

* * *

_I can show you London!  
_

_Rainy, cold, and deeesolate!_

_Tell me Francis, now when did you last taste food so baaaad?_

_You know, with every new chapter I write, I question myself on 2 things:_

_i. I seem to ship PrUK more than I do FrUK. What?_

_ii. Breaking Gil's heart repeatedly is now my hobby. Whyyyy?! _

**Translations:**

**_German:_**

[1] Mein Kleine Scheisse kopf - _my little shit head (which I found was an endearment...so...it's an _endearing _shit head :D)_

[2] Schatz - _treasure, darling, etc..._

_**French:**_

[1] mon chouchou - _my darling/sweetie_

[2] menteur - _liar_

[3] Si Anglais - _so English (and this should be said in the most snobbish way ever for full effect ;) )_

[4] Oui, au moins c'est Anglais. Parce qu'il faut l'admettre, ça aurait pu être pire. Ça aurait pu être Français. - _yes, at least it is English. Because we must admit that it could've been worse. It could've been French._

[5] Vous parlez Français? - _you speak French?_

[6] Oui, je le parle, et alors? - _yes, I speak French, so what?_

[7] Parfait - _perfect_

_And there we are!  
_

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) As always, thank you to all those who favourited, reviewed, and alerted! _

_If there are errors in the German, let me know and I'll fix them, and once again, I hope you liked!_

_Thanks for reading :)_


	9. London

_Warning: I put the translations for long lines of French right beside the text in [[double brackets]]_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 9 – London**

Love was an interesting thing.

Some compared it to fire, passionate and all-consuming, or sometimes even to war – easy to start, hard to end.

Francis, however, thought that love was a river.

Like a wildly flowing stream, it diverged and turbulently changed, but still it managed to teem with life and wonders born anew in its unpredictable waters. Its makings were also very much simple and pure, and to listen to the lapping of lost wavelets against used rocks was as heart-wrenchingly sweet as to hear the eternal three-word string.

But all too like a river was love also dangerous, carving out and gnawing at everything around it, slowly. And then when the river dried up and love died, everything that had been close to the two, be it life-sustaining body or the world of broken lovers, faded. Faded until the leftover paysage was just a lifeless, worthless, _loveless_ desert.

Francis reckoned his river was a long-gone thing. And when he has his ephemeral love slip between his fingers like the metaphorical water, he has also promised to leave himself barren and cold to love.

So far, he had succeeded exceedingly well.

That is, until a bewitching pair of green eyes had made his weary old heart thump spastically again, like that of a lovesick youth.

And for the first time in five years, Francis had genuinely considered that maybe, _maybe_, his river would magically start flowing out of nowhere.

But that idea had soon been rejected.

Because you see, Francis Bonnefoy did not believe in magic.

As it was, he was simply enjoying the warmth brought on by the brilliant eyes (and their equally brilliant owner); nothing more, nothing less.

'_Really?_' A voice from deep inside him questioned.

"Shut up, mind." Francis grumbled to himself as he leisurely trotted up the rickety staircase, careful to avoid a workman who was fixing the hole he had almost fallen through when he had first come to meet the blond Briton.

When he has reached the number 72, he knocked and was promptly let in. Inside, Arthur, still dressed in what Francis assumed were his Sunday clothes, greeted him with a smiling face and a chipped mug full of hot tea. When the guest had denied having any of the offered drink, the Briton had downed his cup ('_how? It was steaming!_') and they had gone out.

"So, where to, monsieur le guide?"

"Well…it's up to you, really. I was thinking maybe the British Museum, or if you're more into art, and being French you probably are, there's the National Gallery. There's also Greenwich Park; it's quite pretty in autumn."

"Those all sound excellent! Mais en premier…" And here Francis wrapped an amicable arm around wide shoulders. "Déjeuner! Where does mon petit guide suggest that we go?"

"Well…There _is _one place I fancy…"

Francis was lead then to a quaint-looking brick building squashed among other, with large windows, purple shutters and mint-green walls. It was small and cosy and completely opposite to the internationally famous parties the lawyer frequented. But Arthur seemed to belong here, where a friendly smile what all the social calibre you needed, and where being silent and not prying were the only manners you had. At the small tea-house (oddly named "Senescence"), the pair lounged on warm plush chairs next to a pencil-drawing of a country house, separated by a thin bouquet of ambient lavender on the table.

"Hullo there lads, what can I get ya?" A sweet-looking, portly grandmother asked them when she had noticed them.

"Euh…If you please, a broccoli cheese soup?" The Frenchman looked helplessly from his menu to his companion. "What do you think?"

"If you like broccoli and cheese, go ahead."

'_Ah vilain! Tu me laisse tout seul à choisir de ce…ce…poison! __Tu paiera!_' Francis managed a smile to the waitress as he panicked inwardly. '_J'espère pour ton bien-être que cette soupe a un goût acceptable…Mais je le doute._' [[_Ah, you rascal! You're leaving me to choose alone from this...this...poison! You'll pay! I hope for your sake that this soup tastes good...Although I doubt it._]]

"Right!" The order was jotted down. "And you there, my boy?"

"Erm…" Arthur fidgeted and coughed and fiddled and looked away to the point where Francis was wondering if he had a nervous medical disorder. "Some, err…Roast lamb would be nice, thank you."

The grandmother hummed approvingly before tottering away to get started on the meals. While waiting, a comfortable silence settled, and to Francis, it seemed that Arthur looked more and more relieved with each passing minute of no words being uttered. He wondered why, and while it pained him to disturb the youth, he was burning to ask.

"Arthur?"

"Hm?" The boy seemed to wake from a trance. "Pardon?"

"Sorry. You just looked so peaceful; I was curious as to why."

"Oh…" His thick eyebrows knitted together. "I guess I'm just not used to this nice silence. The person I usually hang around with can't stand it."

"Do you like silence?"

Grateful green eyes that had before been dropped to the floor looked tiredly up. "I love it."

Satisfied with the answer, the elder fell back into that soft hush of nothing but faraway foreign conversation and the clinking of forks and knives hovering lightly about. He was almost tempted to nod his head back and close his eyes when their meal finally arrived, steaming and looking positively…_horrid_.

'_I knew I couldn't trust English food!_'

But while inwardly horrified of the taste of the murky orange stuff set before him, Francis grinned politely at the grandmother. Arthur, on the other hand, looked incredibly satisfied with his meat covered in green…_goop_. Cautiously, the Frenchman took his spoon and plunged it in the liquid.

"So, Arthur…" He started after the first taste of the surprisingly _not-bad_ soup. "Why do you like this place?"

A pause to swallow a bite of lamb. "Well, my mum and I used to come by here all the time when I was small. In fact," and here he motioned to the frail old women buzzing about the place, "when we coming here, these ladies were still in their mid-life."

"That's very nice…Do you still come here with your mother?"

Arthur's eyes clouded over as he lowered his head as if in shame. "I…I don't…She's dead."

"Oh…Oh, pardon, I had no idea—"

"Don't apologise!" The Englishman raised his eyes to offer a small smile. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Francis offered a consoling grin back to Arthur, and they entered that comfortable silent void once more. Conversation had only come up when they had squabbled over the bill; Arthur had insisted on paying for his own meal, and while Francis hated to see the obviously poor boy waste his money on an outing, he gave in at the end. That is, until he 'went to the washroom' and put the whole bill on his credit card (much to his companion's obvious dismay).

That, however, was quickly forgotten as they set on their historical course. Now, it must be said that Francis _had _visited parts of London, and so he was not a complete stranger to it. However, having a cynical twenty-something year-old punk loudly lecture you on why Winston Churchill was an _arse _in the middle of the British Museum was far better than hearing a repeated script of the Bulldog's accomplishments from some old tour guide.

"I mean, he did some great things, I'll admit." Arthur had been ranting and getting quite a few odd looks. "But come on! He used gas weapons and agreed to torch entire towns full of civilians! Fucking hypocrite he is, blaming only the Germans for war crimes."

"Oh, Arthur…" Francis beamed even after a guard had kindly told them to shut their mouths. "Where _do _you get all this?"

An amused smirk was thrown his way. "A combination of many, _many _books and my good friend Gilbert – he's ace at history. Now come on, let's go see the pharaohs!"

When they passed by the famous Egyptian displays, and then later the jade collection, the elder could see childish fascination in Arthur's bright eyes; he was reading and absorbing every piece of information available to him, quietly commenting on this structure's shape or that one's design. Francis thought it was quite cute in its own way; although, it did have a disadvantage: the boy completely ignored his companion up until they had left the museum. And even then, all he could talk about was the artefacts inside.

Their next destination was Greenwich Park, which was supposed to house the most exotic scenery this side of the British Isles. Of course, to get there, they had to take a car, to which Francis was adamantly opposed:

"Non! I refuse to step foot in a car!"

"Oh come now! Don't be a child and come along! If you want, I'll even hold your hand." The Briton had mocked him openly.

"I am not being a child; it is a medical condition! I get sick! So, I am not going in the stupid car. Point final."

Arguments were obviously useless, because next thing he knew, Francis found himself pressed up between a Briton and a taxi cab door, already feeling nauseous and green-faced. It had been a surprise when Arthur had been true to his word and had actually taken Francis' warm hand in his colder one with a supportive smile. And although it didn't actually make the motion sickness go away, Francis supposed that it helped him ignore it, at the very least.

Once out of the car, they entered Greenwich Park and strolled about the place, delighting in the pleasantly mild sunlight that filtered through threatening clouds and in the handy cigarettes that Francis had offered when they had entered (because why not take the healthiness out of a walk with a good bit of carcinogenics?).

In the park they lounged, then, on a wooden bench, Gauloises lit and stuck firmly between lips. Occasionally, one of the small inhabitants of the park would come down to look at the two strangers. Francis' favourite by far was a small green parakeet that had happily landed on the bench and had then flittered up to Arthur's perfectly still shoulder, where the Frenchman could appreciate just how similar in colour the plumage of the bird and its perch's eyes were, both the same refreshing minty hue. The bird had soon flown away, but Francis' taunts about Arthur being a pirate with a bird on his shoulder wouldn't leave until much later.

He was soon shut up by a dry remark about his sad attempt of a beard making him more of a dirty pirate, and then with that, it was only the rushing of a nearby creek that they could hear. The secluded spot Arthur had chosen only allowed for that small sound and a gentle breeze to come close to them. And as Francis listened to the water rushing by, a question suddenly came out through his lips before he realised what he was truly saying:

"Arthur…What do you think love is like?"

"Excuse me?"

Cold eyes widened and he shook his head. "Euh…Non, sorry, that was out of order—"

"No, no! It's an interesting question…" Here the Briton took a pause to ponder. "I think love is like a forest."

"Ah oui?"

"Yes. It's forever alive – no matter if you cut it down, burn it until it's nothing but ashes, or release whatever plague you may want on it. It will grow back. Different, maybe, and a little bit weaker at first, but it _will_ grow back."

'_Well, that was _surprisingly_positive._'

The lawyer stared at the boy beside him, and he felt his cheeks flare up as the green eyes, alight with what felt like dark magic, looked back into his own. There and then, he couldn't bear to look away until the eye contact was broken by the turn of the head of dirty blond hair, and along with it the spell that had captured him for just a minute.

"And you?" Arthur's voice was low.

"What about me?"

"What do you think love is?"

"…A river…" Francis mumbled, but he didn't feel like explaining why; his reasons seemed silly all of a sudden.

The Kirkland boy seemed to accept the answer seeing as he only shrugged and continued smoking in between quiet coughs. It wasn't long before they shuffled off again on their way, calling up a car and once again riding back to London. In the stuffy cab, though, the Briton had informally called their journey to a halt as he needed to take care of his garden and then had to hurry on to work by seven or eight. However, it was only 6PM, and Francis had asked nicely (or rather, pestered) until Arthur had reluctantly agreed to let him join him in the garden for just a little while.

There, Francis couldn't help but smile as he helped the young man tend carefully to his plants; he hadn't really taken care of any himself in years, but he had always loved flowers. Unfortunately for him, most of them were wilting with the swift approach of winter.

And he always hated that one season.

Because with the passing of the flowers came the passing of all of his previous joys, his hopes and aspirations, his will to live and most everything else. So with the reminder of that pain, that unfathomable, excruciating pain, he suddenly let go of the flower he had been nursing, as if its innocent petals had burned him, and looked away.

As he did, his eyes met the confused ones of the punk, elbow-deep in dark, rich dirt and leather jacket thrown carelessly to the side.

"What's wrong?" His voice came out with a comical spark. "I mean, I know the French can't fight, but scared of a flower? Really? I swear it's tame, so don't worry! I won't let it beat you up."

"Ah ha ha, Arthur! Très drôle!" Francis drawled out, careful to pour the sarcasm on like syrup, and shooting a disdainful leer in the witty little prick's general direction.

The latter only rolled his eyes and ignored him once more, working on getting the last of some offensive weeds out of his garden. Francis chose only to sit back and watch as the Briton cooed tenderly at the browning buds of a row of roses, his soft lips puckered as he whispered what seemed like dulcet poetry to a mint sprout.

He was interesting, that one; the most affection Francis had seen Arthur display was towards his precious plants. He wondered if perhaps, perhaps, he'd show affection to people in the same way… Maybe whisper a sweet Shakespearian sonnet in his ear, and foolishly compare him to a summer's day…

'_Wait, what? _My _ear_? Me _being a summer's day? I must be getting sick from this terrible weather, my thoughts are being silly_.'

"Hey Francis, come and lay down with me."

The Frenchman turned his head quickly, musings disrupted and face red, to once again look at the young punk, who had spread himself comfortably on the ground as the sun had started to set. Seeing as he had nothing to lose and his muscles were tired anyways, he found no issue in stretching down right beside him.

"Francis?"

"Oui?"

"Le ciel est si beau. And when the sun sets on it, it is the most gorgeous lightshow. Reminds me to keep my head up in life…"

"Keeping your head up because of a pretty star? That's very odd, Arthur. I always thought you were a..euh…_cynique_."

"Me? A cynic? Maybe, but it's not voluntary. I don't really strive to be suspicious."

"Why? To some it is a virtue, non?"

"Yeah, I guess that in this day and age, suspicion is a virtue and we're all ripe with it." Here, Arthur fiddled around in his pockets and sneezed. After a (rather adorable, if you'd ask Francis) sniffle, he continued: "I find it disgusting." _Cough. _"Though I'm hardly one to judge morality."

The Frenchman was intrigued. "What is it you find disgusting? Suspicion itself or the fact that many people have it?"

"Well..." A pause to shiver as a chill breeze came by. "It's a mixture of both. Suspicion means dishonesty is abundant; the fact that we have a lot of it just says something about our society." Arthur shrugged.

"So I was right!"

"Oh?"

"You _are _a cynic."

Arthur only snorted in reply and then glued his eyes up to the ever-darkening sky under the smirk of the victorious Frenchman.

"I am not, actually. I'd go as far as far as to say that I'm quite childish."

"Really?"

"Yes. I even think magic is real, if you'll believe it. It's stupid, but it's what I am."

"You're right. It _is _pretty stupid." Francis paused as he searched for his words. "But it is…_voyons_…_mignon_…Ah oui: cute!"

The (slightly offensive) word hung in the air with no reply as the men lay quietly on the cool grass, surrounded by the muted drawls of the city life. Crisp wind that tasted so very strongly of rain came to wash over their faces, and Francis could veritably feel the usual leaden weight lift off his eyelids. Beside him, he could see Arthur resting with closed eyes, with only the quick rises and falls of his chest indicating that he was not asleep. In that vulnerable state, Francis could truly appreciate how frail the boy really looked; he may have had charmingly wide shoulders, but they were sharp and bony, and not at all healthy. And the heavy bags under his eyes, whose green light was for now extinguished, told of many nights of worry and lack of sleep.

'_What was it the English always say?_' Francis mused as he delicately brushed some stray hairs out of the boy's face. '_Keep calm and carry on? Well, he's certainly kept his composure, for what I can see…But he looks terrible._'

And by terrible, the Frenchman really meant both health and looks-wise. He was witty, thoroughly charming, and he held some sort of beautiful magic to him, Francis would admit that much. But besides being uncomfortably gaunt and grey, he was also not a beauty like the famous Bonnefoy playboy's past loves had been. His little ski-jump nose held no character, his eyes were too sullen, his eyebrows monstrous, his teeth crooked, his hair choppy, his lips too thin, and the odd pale freckles on his cheeks seemed out-of-place on his waxy skin.

This, at least, was why Francis reasoned he couldn't be in love with the infuriating Englishman, despite his furiously beating heart and reddening cheeks.

True, it could also be because he had promised to himself not to after Jeanne, but the other reason was just as good (and much less weird).

With a sigh, Francis looked back up to the starless sky and let the dull cacophony of the outside world fade as he lay beside the boy. Somehow, the energy that had fed him throughout the day had been rudely cut off, and he couldn't even bear to blow Arthur a flirtatious kiss when their time together was up. Instead, they left each other off in a manner so cold that one would have guessed that they hadn't even known each other.

But it didn't really matter to Francis.

Arthur was just some random punk kid he had met in a dingy London alley.

_He_ didn't reallymatter.

* * *

_I'm not a big fan of Freud, but might I just say:  
_

_SOMEBODY'S IN DENIIAAAL!_

_**French:**_

[1] monsieur le guide - _M__ister guide  
_

[2] mais en premier... [...] déjeuner! - _But first... [...] lunch! _

[3] mon petit guide - _My little guide_

[4] ah oui? - _Oh, really?_

[5] très drôle - _Very funny _

[6] le ciel est si beau - _The sky is so pretty_

_So, this is a bit late, so I apologise for that ^^_

_But on another note, I hope you enjoyed this chapter._

_Thanks! :)_


	10. Rossignol

**Chapter 10 – Rossignol**

There were times when Francis regretted not having anyone to share his lonesome apartment with.

But a good month in the company of two very loud people certainly made him appreciate the benefits of living alone.

For one, he didn't have to fear going out of his bedroom and being graced, first thing in the morning, with a pretty much naked Lovino slugging his way over to the bathroom. And second, he didn't have to oblige anyone like he had to oblige Antonia, who demanded that they spend their all of their remaining days together.

She would usually bring Francis to museums or art galleries; she knew he had a particular soft spot for the latter. But he never seemed too enthusiastic…Every now and again she'd hear her friend grumble something about having been to this or that place with a certain 'Arthur', but when she'd ask him about it, he'd smile and pretend it was nothing.

She didn't like it.

And Francis didn't quite like her prying into his affairs, either.

While he had come to London for a vacation, he was starting to question exactly _what the hell _he had been thinking when he had agreed to Antonia's idea. His time in the rainy and unpleasant city had only earned him two things:

One, work to catch up on back in Paris.

Two, uncomfortable thoughts about a certain enticing blond with the most enchanting green eyes he had ever seen and the sharpest tongue he had had the displeasure to be an audience to.

And neither were good.

In fact, Francis could go as far as to say that it sucked and that he couldn't wait to get back to his own lush apartment where he wouldn't have to be dragged around a city that he didn't like by the one person who had the power to bring back every single damned memory of Jeanne. It didn't mean that he didn't enjoy Antonia's company; no, she was a charming woman. If only she didn't remind Francis of _her_.

Thankfully for him, though, Antonia usually spent her evenings fast asleep either on her bed or on the couch, with her hands always lazily rubbing her growing stomach, and Lovino was not one to provide entertainment for his guest (especially if that guest was Francis). That of course gave the Frenchman the time to have a breather – he could rest, read a book, or maybe even try his hand at sketching again. He could be productive.

But no.

Instead, every evening of his last week in London was devoted to sitting on a barstool in a more-than-comfortably ambient bar, breathing in thick nicotine mixed with whiskey fumes and drowning all of his earthly sorrows in the contents of a dirty tall glass.

Depressing as his situation might have sounded, though, he was actually quite content. Francis didn't go to that particular small, hole-in-the-wall pub for nothing; he didn't go for the good drinks, either.

He went for the green eyes. He went for the lightness that caught him every time they settled on him. He went for the deep dark pleasure that he felt pooling warmly in his stomach whenever he heard the gruff voice mumble out a surprised "Hullo…"

He went for Arthur.

Francis would sit happily there on his uncomfortable stool and watch the Briton pour beer by the tap with the efficiency of a factory worker. He didn't mind that Arthur would barely glance at him on busy nights; but when he _did_, the Frenchman felt ecstatic. It was that simple pleasure that made his day, and he didn't mind that he'd be scolded by Antonia the next morning for reeking of cheap wine; it was completely worth it.

One night, it must have been the Tuesday or the Wednesday, Francis had also had the distinct pleasure of seeing Arthur sing. From what he could gather from the replacement bartender, the usual musician had gone out to a funeral or something like that, and so Frej had offered the job to the Briton and his band.

'Unknown Menace'.

'_Kind of clichéd for a band name, especially when they're punk…_'

But all of Francis' scepticism grew wings and flew away as the music started. It wasn't as much of a disarrayed clashing of strings as he thought it'd be. In fact, the bassist (who was _so _familiar!) had pulled a flute out at some moment and Arthur had started to sing a folkish tune. Francis wasn't aware that such beauty could be held in the voice of the same rough boy he had met with just a few days ago. And with the flute, it was perfect. The flutist (where had he seen him before?) stood in the warm spotlight diligently next to the singer as the two hums, high and low, mixed like the sweetest of flavours. Francis imagined that it was what love sounded like.

He was also jealous of _them_.

The two boys – Arthur and the albino, they looked like angels together on the stage. And Francis was not one to miss the red-eyed glances full of adoration thrown to the Briton every once in a while.

'_But of course,_' he grimaced bitterly as he swallowed his drink and slammed it on the bar, '_everyone gets their fairy tale love but me._'

With an angry lump stuck in his throat, he was ready to leave. But before that, he dared look up one last time to the stage again to see the band start on a livelier tune that the patrons started singing along with. Arthur was strumming the strings and smiling like a child at Christmas; his eyes shimmered with malice and Francis was struck by how _young _he suddenly looked.

'_Then again…_' he waved for another round and sat back down, '_I didn't come here for love, and I certainly don't want it with this silly little English boy. So where's the harm in visiting him?_'

The noise continued as Arthur's pretty song rang clearly through the air; Francis closed his eyes with a blissful smile. '_His voice is so melodic…Just like that of_ _un rossignol, a nightingale. Perhaps that is what I should call him: my little rossignol._'

* * *

Sunday, it was raining.

Again.

Lovino was muttering angrily beside Francis and occasionally looking at the blond, hissing out a string of something in Italian, and then fixing his eyes back on the road. With the amount of times he did it, Francis was afraid that he was putting a curse on him – after all, who knew? Lovino was famous or being close to his Sicilian 'nana' who was a woman very much into the occult. Finally, the Italian broke the silence:

"So, happy to finally be returning to Paris?" He didn't give the other man the time to answer. "'Cause I god damn am."

Francis only rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"But I'm glad you came."

Blue eyes widened in surprise as Lovino kept going.

"'Tonia has – no, 'Tonia _and_ _I _have been really worried about you. You know, ever since that thing with Jeanne…" A dark hand rested on Francis' shoulder as eyes were kept on the road. "I know I seem like an arsehole most of the time, and that's because I don't like you. But…you're a good man, Francesco, as much as I hate to admit it.

"Lovino—"

"And I know you're probably thinking 'how the _fuck_ did me coming over to a cesspool of a town do _anything _for me?!', but you needed to get away from Paris. Away from, well, your memories. So I hope you don't hold too much of a grudge for us taking you away from work and stuff…And hey, if you ever need anything, we're always there for you."

The hand was put back on the steering wheel and Francis smiled gratefully. "Merci, mon ami…"

"Hey!" A smirk crossed Lovino's face. "None of that 'ami' shit; I ain't your friend. More like…a casual drinking buddy. Capiche?"

"Capiche…_Mon ami tout chou tout cher!_"

"Ah, vaffanculo!"

Both the men erupted in laughter as the drive continued; shortly after, they were parking at the train station and Francis was pre-emptively opening his umbrella right outside the red Porsche. Before going off with his briefcase and suitcase, though, he looked back one last time at the driver. Smirking, bastardous annoyance that he may be, Lovino was a nice man, and Francis was thankful for his friendship. He told him to greet his wife for him (she hadn't been able to come as she was feeling very sick that morning), they both said their goodbyes, and then the Frenchman headed off towards the train once more, leaving London and all it held for him behind.

* * *

In Paris, it didn't rain every damned day of the week.

In Paris, the streets weren't littered with passed out drunks and garbage.

In Paris, the smog wasn't thick enough to physically feel on your skin as you elbowed your way through the streets.

Paris was, quite honestly, very pleasant.

So why wasn't Francis happy?

It had been a good month since he'd returned from his trip in London and was rolling deep into November, when he had realised that something was off. _Very _off. And the green eyes were to blame.

They had first interrupted his work; whenever he was filing through his documents and trying to advance at least a little bit through his '_big case_', he would catch himself looking off into the distance, watching as autumn would steal the green breath of life from the scenery and wondering if the falling leaves looked the same in London, in that little garden cove…Of course, if he wasn't so lucky, Michelle would catch him and slap him upside the head with instructions to "get his gears back on work before she had to spank him."

The Briton had also been troublesome for his sex life; he was kissing a particularly pretty prostitute one evening in his apartment and was ready to finally satisfy the libido he had put on hold for far too long. But just as he was laying down with her pinned under him, Arthur's face, bright and youthful, chose it a perfect time to pop up into the Frenchman's mind and refused to leave. It made the whole affair incredibly awkward, so Francis simply paid the woman and made her leave quickly. What's worse was that not only was the image still not leaving, but it was making Francis' urges worse.

Francis had also had a few business trips to London during December, and there the memory of those brilliant, _beautiful_ eyes had been only strengthened. When he could spare a minute, the Frenchman had tried to find Arthur again; as he had visited the diner, however, the manager had shrugged his shoulders and said that the boy had quit recently. He couldn't remember his flat adress and the pub had been closed down.

'_It's for the best, I suppose._' Francis had been thinking as he was staring at the now-empty building where the bar had been. '_If I can't meet him, he'll probably get out of my mind quicker._'

Back in his home town again, though, he found that the memory of the Englishman was apparently as stubborn as the small man himself because contrary to what Francis expected, green eyes like murky water _still_ haunted his very best dreams. It was somewhat torturous, and the Frenchman had at first been very angry that he couldn't get over a silly little man that he hadn't even _liked _all that much. But his brooding didn't do anything to fix the problem, and eventually he found himself able to ignore it for the most part.

He figured that it was a minor inconvenience that would go away at some point. It wasn't anything that he should dwell on.

Because it would go away soon, right?

* * *

It was December.

Francis lounged on his nice beige couch, watching as the snowflakes floated lazily down from the clouds, covering Paris in a sparkling sheet.

The television was broadcasting some kind of Christmas movie in the background. But Francis never really _had _cared for seasonal films; they seemed a bit too happy for his tastes. Too unrealistic.

A crystal flute of champagne rested, lonely on his mahogany coffee table, along with a few 'Joyeux Noël' cards that he hadn't really looked at yet. He wasn't going to bother with them anytime soon, either; they could be answered later. Francis glanced at the small fake tree that he had brought down from his closet a couple of days ago – he may have been spending the holiday alone, but he could at least offer himself a little bit of Christmas spirit. Even if the plastic pine looked oddly cheer-less with its branches empty of decoration and with no presents under it… It didn't really matter, though, and Francis had been much too lazy to find a few bulbs or tassels for it anyways.

He bent over, minding the returning pain to his back, and picked up the flute. A thoughtful swirl of the golden liquid before he lifted it up with the grace of a prince and gave a toast to an imaginary guest. "Wherever you are, Arthur, I wish you a very merry Christmas." He leaned into the comfortable pillows of his couch and brought the glass to his lips. "Santé, Rossignol."

* * *

_Line breaks are beautiful, sexy things, and I used them here to the point of abuse...  
_

_So anyways, with the swift approach of summer, HAVE SOME WINTER AND SOME CHRISTMAS! Here in Canada, it's customary to always keep in mind that winter is out there somewhere and that you should probably be prepared for some snow in July because I have seen it happen and omg it is both the most beautiful and angering thing that I have ever seen!_

_Anyways, for the translations:  
_

_"Mon ami tout chou tout cher!" It's meant to be along the lines of a very sarcastic "my buddy, my pal, my bestest friend in the whole wide world!"_

_"Santé" Basically means "cheers"; it's what you say right before you drink alcohol._

_So, I hope you enjoyed this, and again a big thanks to people who have favourited, alerted, reviewed, etc..., you guys are awesome!  
_

_Until the next time!_


	11. Untangling

**Untangling**

"Oi, watch it!" Arthur ducked as a cardboard box was moved overtop his head.

The twinkling from it suggested that it contained some of Frej's glassware, and for a brief moment, the blond wondered what would happen if the bottom of it gave out and its contents spilled over him. Would he perish a somewhat comedic death, the bartender killed by his own work?

Part of him hoped so. At least then he wouldn't have to worry about silly mundane things like life.

But fortune never _had_ been on his side – moving men kept buzzing about, and bit by bit, the pub was stripped to a cold, empty room with only some shelves and a splintery wooden bar. Arthur didn't bother helping out with that job; his only concern for the moment was the warm bottle of beer that he and Mathias had been sharing for the past half-hour in dead silence.

That and rent, of course.

And _Gilbert_.

Arthur's two favourite issues, now combined and crushing him on a whole new level of stress and anxiety. Add in substance abuse and malnutrition, and he had a set of misfortunes, brightly gift-wrapped and sent to him with a big "Fuck you" written on the card!

He snorted and took a lazy sip of the brew.

"So, Arthur," the silence was suddenly startled by Mathias' taut tone. "Do you have any plans on what to do now that grandpa is moving back to Denmark?"

"No," the blond deadpanned, thinking of leaving it at that before considering the curt answer too cruel; it wasn't Mathias' fault that he had lost his job. He continued, "Out of curiosity, why did Frej ever decide to move back?"

"He thought he was too old to be owning a pub; he's been running this one ever since he and my granny separated, and that's been a long time. Probably around thirty or so years, I'd think…"

"Ah…"

The Dane opened his mouth again but was promptly interrupted by a foreign set of heels clicking on the old floorboards; the two blonds turned to see who it was.

'_Oh._'

Gilbert marched in and went to stand beside Mathias, back as militarily straight as ever and eyes narrowly averting Arthur.

'_Oh, so we're sulking?_' the latter huffed, taking another swig of beer and rather exaggeratedly slamming it on the bar's countertop. '_I see how it is now; well, Beilschmidt, two can play at this childish silent treatment of a game!_'

Indeed, the albino had been serving Arthur plate upon plate of cold shoulder for the past week or so, and the blond hadn't been particularly happy with it. It had been an issue with Francis: Gilbert was jealous. A couple of days after the Frenchman had left on his plane to fly back to his precious Paris, Arthur had gone out for an innocent smoke with Gilbert and had happened to innocently mention their outings to Greenwich Park, at which point the German's face had reddened ridiculously to the point where Arthur thought he had been chocking on something.

And that was it.

Not one reprimand or scolding word out of those pale lips; they had just continued their walk and then taken diverging paths home. Afterwards, it had been all short-worded answers and awkward silences.

However, it seemed many people hadn't noticed; or, more specifically, Mathias hadn't. He had kept looking into gigs for their band, and had still persisted in getting all three together at his place for booze, popcorn, and action films. Either he was incredibly daft, or he was trying to set a diplomatic reconciliation in motion. And considering Mathias wasn't _that _thick, Arthur assumed it was the latter – sneaky bastard.

In fact, he had been the one to insist that all three of them get together in the evening just to see the moving men haul boxes; or so Arthur assumed. They hadn't really done anything else so far. Except chattering, which only Mathias was doing, spilling his words endlessly to deaf ears. An arm wildly thrust around each of the brooding men's shoulders was probably the only thing that got either Gilbert or Arthur to listen to him:

"Guys, now that you're all here, I must tell you something," the Dane started melodramatically, eyes lifting up to the dismal ceiling as if some beautiful deity was looking down over him, "I'm in love."

Gilbert was the first to speak up, "What?"

"Like I said: I'm in love. With the most perfect, beautiful, smart woman in the world! Her hair's like woven sunlight! Her eyes are more brilliant than the waters in Copenhagen!"

Mathias would've kept on gushing if it wasn't for Arthur bluntly interrupting, "Whoa, whoa, there, Shakespeare. You've been in love a good, what, ten times? In the past few months alone? Do you at least know the poor girl's name this time?"

A dreamy sigh, "Nikoline."

"At least it isn't a stranger again, then," the blond reached over for some more beer, disappointed to find the bottle empty. "Anyways, how did you find this Nikoline?"

"Well, she was actually having some drinks with her friends at one of our gigs, and when we met by the bar, it was like love at first sight!"

Gilbert rose a bored eyebrow, "What, did she say that?"

Mathias took on a bit of an embarrassed look and twiddled his thumbs, "Erm, actually, she told me to piss off…But we still talked after a while! I even told her about you guys!" Here his eyes lit up and he raised a finger, "Which reminds me! She says she owns a bookshop, over on Carnaby Street; they just opened up. And she's looking for someone who can set up books and shit."

Two pairs of eyebrows rose, and Arthur gave a tentative, "So?"

"Well, when I heard that, I immediately thought of you, Artie! You need a job, and you're qualified, right? So…" here Mathias looked a slight bit nervous. "I set you up an interview for this Sunday afternoon."

"You…you what?" Arthur paled as he heard the surprise, and for a minute, he had to honestly weigh the pros and cons of strangling Mathias or viciously murdering him. Yes, he had offered him a job just when he had needed one like an angel descending from the heavens, Deus ex Machina in hand. On the other hand, though, he had caught Arthur completely unawares. "I really appreciate this, mate, but I don't have a resume."

"No problem!" Mathias grinned, "You can type one up and print it at my place; no big deal, I mean, you've done it before, right?"

"Well, yes, but…I mean, what qualifications does she even need?"

"She said she was looking for people who liked books and who spoke a couple of languages; you're into that stuff, right?"

"I am…"

"So you see?" here Mathias stood, a giant above the two others, empty bottle of beer in his hand and being raised to the heavens. "You're _perfect_! Not to mention it pays super well, so that's totally a plus!"

It took Arthur a minute of thought to evaluate the situation in his head, but in the end, what did he have to lose? His current job with Sadiq was driving him well under the poverty line, and a raise was the last thing he expected. He looked up at the Dane, completely forgetting about the sulking red eyes that had been pressed on him the whole time, and gave a hopeful smile, "Thanks, Mathias."

* * *

Once more, Arthur wasn't quite sure if Mathias' intervention had been a blessing or a curse, though he was leaning dangerously towards the latter.

The interview was abysmal.

For the past ten minutes, he had been sitting silently on a backache-inducing chair while a woman, whom he reckoned would've done just _beautifully _in the gestapo, scrutinised his personal files and résumé. Besides a "hello, Mr Kirkland," not another word had been uttered.

During those excruciatingly awkward moments, though, Arthur had entertained himself by looking around the little shop; for starters, it was messy.

Ridiculously messy.

Books were laying haphazardly on every unpolished pine floorboard, or even left in a teetering skyscraper of a structure atop exotically-carved tables. Although the Englishman could easily see why: the numerous shelves and bookcases were already bursting with texts of all shapes and sizes. There was simply nowhere left to keep some of them (although Arthur would've gladly taken those poor leftover novels back home if asked). The whole slipshod arrangement was odd, too, because the owner didn't look at all like the type to let chaos reign. This 'Nikoline Bondevik', the potential gestapo candidate, was just like her love-struck admirer had described; blonde, blue eyed, a generally petite thing. Her whole complexion seemed to be faded, though, from her powdery skin to her baby blue wool jumper. The only thing that _really _seemed to stand out about her were a pair of earrings, shaped oddly like snakes, and some bright red half-moon specs perched high on a thin straight nose, framing a set of eyes that could only be described as foreign.

Mathias hadn't lied when he had said that they were deeper than the Copenhagen canals.

Arthur felt as if he could plunge into their indigo waters and swim for eternities without ever hitting their rocky bottom. It was eerie.

"So," a smooth voice broke Arthur's observations and made him jump in his seat. "Mr Kirkland. Matth—ah…Mr Køhler was right when he said that you were a, and I quote, 'multi-language snark and bark machine.' Well, about the multiple languages part, anyways. How many tongues is it that you speak, again?"

"Well, I'm fluent in English and French, and I dabble in some rusty German."

"Excellent – I need somebody able to explain some of the foreign books. Now, I see you've completed college with your A-levels?"

"Yes."

"But no university?"

"No," here Arthur took on a bit of an embarrassed look. "Not yet, at the least…"

That only earned him a sceptical look and more silence. Then, "You realise, Mr Kirkland, that you're only here because your friend bought me a few drinks, right?"

"Well, yes. Isn't that just the good old European way, though?" Arthur tried for a joke to relieve the atmosphere (and hopefully his nerves as well), which seemed to be successful as a shy smile formed on NIkoline's lips.

"Well, let me just add 'sense of humour' to my list of pros," the girl's shoulder lost their strictness and it was Arthur's turn to give a grin. It seemed the tables were turning! "Now, Mr Kirkland, any medical issues I should know about? Please be honest, this is important."

Or maybe the tables were as damn stationary as always.

'_Why yes, Ms Bondevik; I'm actually an ex-recovered heroin addict that sacrifices his health and meagre finances to inject low-quality opiates into his bloodstream! So if you ever find me passed-out and drooling on your floor, just don't mind my presence._'

"No," he lied straight through his teeth. That little detail had the power to rob him of the better job he so desperately needed, and anyways, he kept his highs to himself, in his apartment. There was no reason his employer should be concerned with it.

Or at least that was Arthur's excuse to himself.

Nikoline, however, didn't notice the uncomfortable sweat that that started to glisten near his hairline (which in any case could be attributed to the shop being the temperature and smell of a fresh cup of coffee), and she took time only to re-read some of the papers on her desk.

"Right, then," her cool voice froze the ambient air, and she removed her glasses to polish them as she spoke. "Just like the other candidates that have passed through here, you're obviously more than capable to stack books and direct clients to what they need. So," here she put her specs back on and looked with bored eyes at him. "Why should I hire _you_, of all people?"

Arthur had expected that question; he had heard it times enough, going as far as remembering the cock-and-bull story he'd always repeated with a smile to his past employers. However, he hadn't quite expected the Ms Bondevik, and he had a feeling she wouldn't believe that he wanted to grow personally along with the company. On the other hand, blatant tactless honesty was never a good idea in this sort of affair.

"I have a few, Nika," a slightly less-than-feminine voice suddenly came through the door, tone as cutting as her Slavic-sounding accent. "He's our age, so he has to have some money, obviously. And if you want a _really _good reason, you think his friend is cute. Come on; he needs the money, you need the guy, it's a match made in heaven."

'_Well, so much for avoiding brutal honesty…_' Arthur thought as he turned around, only to catch a sight of what seemed like an angel. A catty angel.

A platinum-haired woman stood in the doorframe, arms crossed and dark eyebrows lifted to compliment her thin-lipped smirk. She wasn't exactly a playboy model, with her non-existent curves and muscular legs, but the air of elegance that wafted around her like her French perfume enticed Arthur more than he reckoned any woman could've. Really, the only thing that broke her aristocratic façade were her shoeless feet (although they were still veiled in silk stockings).

Nikoline sighed, "Really, Natalia, there wasn't any need for that." Arthur turned back to the owner, features softening as he saw just how flushed her whole face was. "That, Mr Kirkland, is Natalia Arlovsk—"

"Natalia Uladzimirovna Arlovskaya," the Slavic woman interrupted.

"Well _excuse me_, Natalia Uladzimirovna Arlovskaka," Nikoline rolled her eyes. "Anyways, she's a med student on exchange this year from Voronezh, Russia. She also works part-time for me and is my roommate."

With as charming a smile as he could manage, Arthur stood and stuck his hand out, which Natalia reluctantly stepped in to shake. "A pleasure to meet you; I'm Arthur Kirkalnd. So, Ms Arlovskaya, you're Russian then? I had recognised the accent but I wasn't quite sure that that was it."

His attempt at pleasantry only received a chilly glare, "That's because it _isn't_. It's Belarussian."

"O-oh, sorry…"

"Don't be." She didn't seem to have really accepted her apology.

Arthur gulped. Right now, he was considering whether to throw himself out of one of the small windows and make a run for it; to work here seemed simply hellish. He, the poor defenceless man, given up at the mercy of these two Amazons armed with dryness and piercing angry eyes.

Which, when he thought about it more and more, seemed like any man's fantasy.

Still, as the two women discussed with each other while glancing occasionally in his general direction, Arthur reckoned that this wasn't as exciting as he'd thought it'd be throughout his teenage years. On the other hand, the pay that Matthias had told him about wasn't half bad – alright, he lied, it was _fabulous_ – and his rent was soon going to be due, so work would have been simply glorious at the moment.

While the gears turned in his head, Arthur didn't notice Natalia approach him and so yelped when she snapped perfectly manicured nails in front of his face.

"Hey, Mr Kirkland, it is time to be getting your head out of the clouds. Nika would be liking to discuss the payments and regulations with you now." She turned to step back out of Nikoline's small office (which doubled as a rest lounge), not giving Arthur the time to say goodbye or thank you.

He turned back to the other girl, whose modest smile and blush was still in place, "Well, Mr Kirkland, we've thought about it, and…Well, you're hired."

Arthur felt his heart skip a beat as his spirits shot up, "I…I…Thank you! Thank you very much, Ms Bondevik!"

"Call me Nikoline," the shop owner started gathering her papers, and Arthur was about to ask her to use _his _first name as well (as a sign of friendship or what-have-you) before she continued. "It's because you can't say my surname right."

He shut his mouth; he shouldn't have forgotten that he was still faced with a duo of figurative Amazons.

* * *

It was already December – the 18th, to be precise.

Snow had started falling in large flakes outside; the news had dubbed that weather "unusually violent" and it had gotten some people worked up. Even Arthur's neighbour Eli, hermit that he was, came out on the balcony every so often to glance at the sky with worry. But the former wasn't quite so concerned with the weather – if anything, he quite enjoyed it. Somehow, it made the atmosphere at work very relaxing; during particularly cold days, not only was it less busy, but Nikoline would always brew some extra cups of java, and the whole bookshop would take on the ambient smell of coffee, cinnamon, and Natalia's ridiculously expensive perfumes.

So that morning, when a veritable flurry was stirring up outside, Arthur noticed a new-found bounce in his step as he was on his way out and to work.

However, he hadn't even taken a proper step out his door before being startled by a crunching sound from under his boot. Curiously, he peered down and saw that he had stepped on a small letter that he picked up and ripped out of its scarlet envelope. It turned out to be a Christmas card, and the hard-pressed writing and left-handed ink smudges immediately gave out its sender.

"_Hey, Arthur,_

_I hope you catch this card – you don't have a mailbox by your door and I don't trust the mailman, so I left this here on my way to class._

_I need to talk to you._

_Join me at my place this weekend? We can play Guitar Hero and stuff. And also, like, y'know, talk. _

_Anyways, keep warm and call me._

_Love,_

_Gilbert B._

_PS: Mathias said he won't be able to come, but he says hi._"

Arthur's stomach churned uncomfortably as he read and re-read the paper; was Gilbert actually serious? Maybe it was the product of living in a miserably household with a set of boys, but the Englishman expected the grudge to be held even just a _little _longer. Not that he was opposed to the change of mind, really. Well, _almost_. Gilbert's new eagerness to engage in civil communication meant that Arthur had to stop being a coward and actually had to start facing his problem head-on.

With a tired sigh, the blonde pocketed the note and trudged to work, all enthusiasm for the storm gone. In the shop, Natalia was already busy serving customers who needed last-minute Christmas presents; the place was overrun. The two barely had time to exchange friendly kisses on the cheeks before being dragged to separate corners of the room by frantic (and obviously forgetful) shoppers. Nikoline herself was also being smothered by the workload, downing cup after cup of hot coffee while working at the cash register and doubling as a reference guide for her flustered employees; long live holiday shopping.

It was only during his ten-minute break that Arthur was able to borrow the shop's phone and pass a quick line over to Gilbert's cell, arranging through short sentences and muttered words to meet the next day at five (because Nikoline, wonderful woman that she was, ended workdays early on Saturdays). After that call, Arthur felt something akin to a lightness in his chest; he was looking forward to their talk. Perhaps it was the chance to see Gilbert, friend whom he still loved dearly, once more, or maybe the ceasing of the lies and fake smiles and late-night escapades on his old futon by the moonlight.

When he arrived at Gilbert's door the next evening, though, Arthur found himself hesitating to knock; had it been wise to come, he wondered? The only thing the visit seemed to be serving right now were his growing anxieties and guilt feelings. He had _no idea _what he'd say to the albino. Would he apologise? Probably, but to do so he'd need to confess to his sins, duty which he had been avoiding for a while now. Too long a while.

However, there was no divine intervention to suddenly make him disappear when the wooden door creaked open, and he was ushered by tense pale hands inside to the living room, where for the first time in months, he and Gilbert looked into each other's eyes.

"Gilbert…" Arthur wasn't quite sure where to begin, and so he shut himself up again, hoping to find inspiration for his words in the sounds the old apartment made. But no such luck; the building was deathly quiet.

"Yeah?"

Lord, Arthur had missed hearing that voice. Odd how now that he finally had the pleasure to listen to it, its sweetness made his heart wrench. "You…" another silent moment. "You wrote and said you wanted to talk, right?"

Gilbert nodded, his usual cockiness gone and replaced by a somewhat meek glance over at the large windows that looked at the busy London streets. "I did. But…Can we do it somewhere more private, maybe? It feels as if all those people walking there are fucking Communist spies of whatever."

"Sure," Arthur gave a weak smile. "Whatever you'd like."

'_Oh God, what will I tell him?_'

Gilbert walked him over to his bedroom and invited the blond to sit next to him on the edge of his bed. "Look, Birdie. I know I haven't exactly been friendly these past few weeks," the albino began with an uncomfortable sigh, "and it's been fucking stupid of me to do that…"

"Gilbert, I—"

"No, wait, let me finish: I was jealous. When Mattie told me that you were meeting up with another guy, I just got really angry about it. But I know better now. I remembered when I first met you, and I thought you were just the funniest and most charming guy and Birdie, I love you! It was childish of me to have been jealous, and—"

"What?!" Arthur interrupted and stared at the other with a look of pure horror. "Gilbert, why would it be childish? I _did _go out with another man! Why can't you be mad at me for that?" He felt his usual sang-froid slip thin out of his grasp. "Can't you see that I'm no good for you?!"

"Why would I even think that, Birdie?" The albino asked softly, trying to comfort the somewhat-hysterical Briton with a hand to the shoulder that was violently slapped away.

"Because I _am _no good! I'm still as foolish and useless as the punk you picked off the streets when we first met!"

"Don't say that…"

"How can I not? I've been terrible to you, I've toyed with your feelings…I'm a bastard to you!" Arthur sobbed in anger, anger towards himself, anger towards Gilbert, anger towards god-damned _everything_!

A thick silence grew before Gilbert's dead tone cut through.

"Arthur…Why would you think that you've toyed with my feelings?"

"You know very damn well why!" The blond snapped back. "I've made you cry, I've never said 'I love you' back…" Red eyes turned away at the last mention.

After a brief pause to calm his hysteria, the Briton ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and continued in a cracked voice. "Gilbert…I don't love you anymore."

Hunched over shoulders stiffened then trembled with a breath, and the head of silvery hair nodded slowly in reluctant apprehension. "Then why have we kept going?"

"Because, Gilbert! You saved my bloody life! You quite literally pulled me from the gutter and made me a new – a _better _– man! I loved you, I truly did, and you know that. At some point, though, that feeling…_faded_. But when you still wanted to exchange a few fucks here and there, how could I say no? I owe everything to you."

No sounds came after, and Arthur was almost afraid to look back at what he reckoned was soon to be his _ex_-best friend. The latter still had his eyes glued to somewhere far away, facing the window that looked out onto the bustling street, but his knuckles could be seen translucent and almost white, fingers gripping furiously at the mattress. Gilbert exhaled shakily.

"I see." The voice was scarily steady and without emotion. "I should've understood before; I guess I kinda knew it anyways. I was pushing you, and I apologise for that. But I get it now."

The blond frowned. "D-don't be sorr—"

"Whatever."

Green eyes meekly fell down to the floorboards at that cutting cold remark and remained stable there in hopes of something, _anything_ else from the other. But when nothing but hostile silence came, Arthur simply got up and showed himself out of the apartment.

He paused outside in the corridor, his whole body quaking, a nauseous feeling crawling up his throat, and he tried desperately to gain his faltering composure.

From behind him he heard the ever-familiar scratched voice one last time, roaring out a wrathful, grieving "Fuck!" that pierced through the walls, followed quickly by a _bang_, like that of a fist colliding with plaster.

Arthur left the moment he heard muffled wails and cries.

As he rushed on his way back home, the blond felt as if it were all a bit of a déjà-vu; it was just like the last time he had walked in shame out of Gilbert's place. Menacing winds were sweeping the streets clean, the air was heavy with the promise of foul weather, and Arthur was feeling guiltier than ever.

Which was odd.

The Briton had always imagined that his conscience would be clearer and he'd feel lighter once he had confessed the truth; but there was no such thing. If anything, he was feeling more miserable than ever.

His reddening nose gave out a small sniffle and he reached a sleeve to wipe away some of the tears that were threatening to fall.

"God damn it all…"

* * *

Arthur didn't imagine that he'd be spending Christmas like this.

Alone, completely alone.

He liked silence, but the constant, unwanted solitude was murderous.

Since Nikoline had gone to spend Christmas with her family, she had trusted the Briton enough to let him run her bookshop the week she was in Norway. She had probably been right to do that, Arthur thought as he locked up the old wooden red door of the store and tossed the small golden key into his thin coat's pocket; he shivered as a gust of wind made the frigid snow rise again. It wasn't like he was going to trash the whole place with his friend or anything, he was more responsible than that. Not to mention that Natalia, who had boarded her plane for Belarus a few hours back, would have his head (and other parts that he'd rather not think about being separated from the rest of him).

'_That and I also have no more friends left to trash anything with…_' a bitter voice reminded the blond at the back of his mind.

But the latter only shook off the thought like he did the snow that had accumulated on his head and then kept on trudging through the dreary, unfriendly London streets to his apartment. Worn-out boots thumped loudly up the dark staircase, and the blond would've wished a merry Christmas to anyone he saw, _if _he had seen anyone.

But he didn't.

Everyone was probably with their loved ones.

The lonely Briton caught himself wondering about _his_ family as he stepped into his cold little flat. Were they seated in front of the old family hearth together? Had Molly and his mum made some thick black Christmas pudding like they usually did each year?

Were they thinking of Arthur?

Repressed memories flooded in, unwanted, as the boy ripped open a pack of frozen pizza pops that had been on sale at the corner store. With a slam of the old microwave door, he heated up his truly _prestigious _Christmas dinner and tried to push out all of his old feelings and regrets.

Suddenly, a shiver coursed his body, halting, at least for now, his emotional crisis.

"Bloody hell!" he swore, "I forgot that they stopped my heating…"

Indeed, while his electricity and water were, thank God, still working, his gas bill had been _long _overdue, and his landlord wasn't allowing even a breath of warmth to seep through flat #72 until they _were_ paid. And, judging by the miserable state of his finances, Arthur guessed that that would not be too soon. With another shudder and a curse to whomever thought of taxing heat, the blond stalked off to slip another jumper on, along with three more socks, his gloves, and the mint green bunny-eared woollen hat that Molly had made for him a few years back.

He felt a bit ridiculous.

But that wasn't the brunt of it; Arthur was fine with looking silly. Well, no, he wasn't, but it didn't bother him as much as something else did.

It didn't bother him as much as being so utterly _alone _did.

He sniffed.

'_Bah, humbug! Who needs people anyways?_' The Briton sighed sadly as he dug into his steaming pizza pop. '_Not me, that's for sure!_' He knew of course that this wasn't true and he was spouting bullshit to himself, but it was comforting to pretend that his loneliness was normal.

After having finished his dinner, he washed his plate, bowed his head, prayed a bit, and then decided that there wasn't anything else to do except maybe lay in bed with a novel in hand. He didn't have to open the bookshop until about ten tomorrow (long live holiday hangovers), so he supposed that he could take a nice long night to read again, activity he hadn't had the time for in much too long.

So, armed with a copy of Thomas Mann's _Death in Venice _and a mug of hot tea, he relaxed under his covers and read. For hours he delighted in the exquisitely intricate allusions that lay under the text, hinting subtly at fantastic myth and folklore. But soon those details became but a heavy burden, and his eyes started to hurt from reading too close to the page (a bad habit of his). Arthur wasn't done yet, though, so he rummaged through his cabinet-made-bedside-table for a bookmark; he'd hate to fold the corners of the page, it bothered him immensely.

There wasn't anything in the first drawer.

'_I'm sure I have a bookmark somewhere, though…_'

Nor could he find what he was looking for in the second.

'_Well that's curious…_'

Finally, his hand reached out instinctively for the third drawer, with its blackened handle and unclean fingerprints, before jerking his hand away in terror when he realised just what he was about to open.

'_Oh no._'

While he hadn't opened up the physical compartment, he could still feel this much-feared craving waking up again in the very back of his mind, like a ferocious jungle beast demanding to be fed. This time, though, instead of attempting to fight the undefeatable thing, Arthur immediately considered satisfying this old need. It wasn't like he had to open early tomorrow, it was the holidays – so it didn't really matter if he knocked himself out for a few hours. Not to mention that there was no more Gilbert; no more promises to be kept, no more guilt to be felt about the dangerous uses.

A brief minute ticked by on the small Ikea clock before Arthur made up his mind and carelessly chucked the novella on the floor. "Ah, _fuck it_!"

He reached for the dirty drawer again.

* * *

_Welp, this took some time orz_

_I'm sorry about the delay, really, but I'm gonna be upfront and just say that family life hasn't been going too well for me these past few months, and I haven't actually felt like I could write anything. I kinda got out of my rut a couple of days back, and then this little tirade above happened. So, to those of you who have stuck around, thanks for being patient with me, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)_

_Thanks!_

_(PS: Nikoline is female Norway ^^)_


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